ainly she was glad that Connie
would experience the happiness of hearing her father play before a vast
assemblage who would gather to do him honor. Nevertheless she was just a
trifle cast down over the unexpected flight of her friend to New York.
With a start of dismay she remembered that she had intended going to see
Constance with the object of clearing away the clouds of
misunderstanding. Now she would have to wait until Connie returned. And
then, there was Mignon. She felt that it would be hardly fair to begin
her crusade without consulting the girl whom Mignon had wronged most
deeply. She had perfect faith in the quality of her friend's charity.
Constance was too generous of spirit to hold a grudge. Through suffering
she had grown great of soul. Still, it was right that she should be
asked to decide the question. If she refused outright to sanction the
proposed campaign for reform, or even demurred at the proposal, Marjorie
was resolved not to carry it forward, even for Mary's or Mignon's sake.

Suddenly she recollected her adjuration to the girls to gain their
mothers' consent before going on with their plan. Her brows drew
together in a perplexed frown. Had not Mary threatened, in the heat of
her anger, that if Marjorie told her mother of their disagreement she
would never speak to her again? How could she inform Captain of the
compact she and her friends had made without involving Mary in it? Her
mother would naturally inquire the reason for this rather remarkable
movement. She might be displeased, as well as surprised, over Mary's
strange predilection for the French girl. Her Captain knew all that had
happened during her freshman year. On that memorable day when she had
leaped into the river to rescue Marcia Arnold, and afterward come home,
a curious little figure clad in Jerry Macy's ample garments, the recital
of those stormy days when she had doubted, yet clung to Constance, had
taken place. She recalled that long, confidential talk at her mother's
knee, and the peace it had brought her.

All at once her face cleared. She would tell her mother about the
compact, but she would leave out the disagreeable scenes that had
occurred between herself and Mary. "I'll tell her now and have it over
with," she decided.

"What makes you look so solemn, dear?" Her mother had glanced up from
her embroidery, and was affectionately scanning her daughter's grave
face. "Does your letter from Connie contain bad news? I hope n