d dropped behind on some pretext. Betty had been sure
she heard the camera click, but Mary had grinned and told her not to be
so vain of her back.

However, nobody recognized the picture. The few sophomores who knew
anything about it were pledged to secrecy, as the grinds were never
allowed to become too personal, and the freshmen treated the telegram as
an amusing myth. In a few minutes every one was dancing again, and only
too soon it was ten o'clock.

"Wasn't it fun?" said Betty enthusiastically, as she and Helen
undressed.

"Oh yes," agreed Helen. "I never had such a good time in my life. But,
do you know, Miss Watson says she was bored, and Roberta thought it was
tiresome and the grind-book silly and impossible."

"Truth is stranger than fiction sometimes," said Betty sagely,
smothering a laugh in the pillows.

She was asleep in five minutes, but Helen lay for a long while thinking
over the exciting events of the evening. How she had dreaded it! At home
she hated dances and never went if she could help it, because she was
such a wall-flower. She had been afraid it would be the same here, but
it wasn't. What a lovely time she had had! She could dance so well now,
and Miss King's friends were so nice, and college was such a beautiful
place, though it was so different from what she had expected.

Across the hall Roberta had lighted her student lamp and was sitting up
to write an appreciative and very clever account of the evening to her
cousin, who was reporter on a Boston paper and had made her promise to
send him an occasional college item.

And Eleanor, still in the yellow satin, sat at her desk scribbling
aimlessly on a pad of paper or staring at a clean sheet, which began,
"My dear father." She had meant to write him that she was tired of
college and wanted to come home at once; but somehow she couldn't begin.
For she thought, "I can see him raise his eyebrows and smile and say,
'so you want to throw up the sponge, do you? I was under the impression
that you had promised to stay out the year,' as he did to the private
secretary who wouldn't sit up with him till three in the morning to
write letters."

Finally she tore up "My dear father," and went to bed in the dark.

CHAPTER V

UP HILL--AND DOWN

The next day was just the sort that everybody had been hoping for on
Mountain Day,--crisp and clear and cool, with the inspiriting tang in
the air, the delicious warmth in the sunshine, and the sof