girl nodded, then, pinning on her hat, the two left the
building. Marjorie wished to ask questions, but she did not know how to
begin with this strange, moody girl. There were so many things to say.
"Do you play basketball?" she asked, almost timidly, when they had
traversed three blocks in silence.

Constance shook her head. "I don't even know the game, let alone trying
to play it. Do you play?"

"Yes. I have played every position on the team. I was chosen for center
of the freshman team at Franklin High just before I came here. One of
the freshmen has asked me to go to the tryout on Friday."

The Mary girl looked wistfully at Marjorie. "I'm going to tell you
something," she announced with finality. "Truly, it's for your own good.
You mustn't try to be friends with me. If you do, you'll be sorry. We,
my father and I, are nobodies in this town. Father's a broken-down
musician who teaches the violin for a living. I've a little lame
brother, and we take care of a poor old musician, who, people say, is
crazy. He isn't, though. He's merely childish.

"People call us Bohemians and gypsies and even vagabonds. They don't
understand that our greatest crime is just being poor. The girls in the
freshman class make fun of me and call me a tramp and a beggar behind my
back. One girl did try to be the least bit pleasant with me, but she
soon stopped. We've been in Sanford only two months, but it seems like a
hundred years. At first I was glad to think I was going to high school.
How I hate it now! But they sha'n't drive me away. I'll get my
education in spite of everything." Her lips drew together with resolute
purpose.

"So, you see," her voice grew gentle, "you mustn't waste your time upon
me. The girls won't like you if you do, and you don't know how dreadful
it is to be left out of everything. Of course, you can speak to me,
but----" She paused and looked eloquent meaning at Marjorie. Her late
aloofness had quite vanished. Her small face was now soft and friendly,
making the resemblance to happy-go-lucky Mary Raymond more apparent.

Marjorie laughed. Those who knew her best would have understood that her
laughter meant defiance. "I don't choose my friends because they are
rich or because others like them. I choose them because I want them
myself," she declared with a proud lift of her head. "I knew that
someone had been horrid to you the first day I ever saw you. I heard
several girls talking of you afterward. At least, I