e
seeing and hearing Mignon at her worst, and they did not relish it. It
may be set down to their credit that not one of them took the trouble to
answer her. Beyond a mute exchange of meaning glances, they ignored her
scorn, slipping away like shadows when they had changed their basket
ball suits for street apparel. Outside the high school they congregated
and made solemn agreement that now and forever they were "through" with
Mignon.

Several friends of the latter, including Miss Dutton, the referee,
dropped into the dressing room, and to them Mignon continued her tirade.
But the face of one hitherto ardent supporter was missing. Mary Raymond
had fled from the school the moment the game was ended. For once she had
seen too much of Mignon. She had tried to force herself to believe that
she was sorry for the latter's deserved defeat, but, in reality, she was
glad that Marjorie's team had won. She determined to go home and wait
for her chum. She would confess that she was sorry for the past and ask
Marjorie to forgive her.

Putting her determination into swift action, she left the high school
behind her almost at a run. Once she had reached home she paused only to
hang her wraps on the hall rack, then posted herself in the living-room
window, an anxious little figure. When Marjorie came she would open the
hall door for her. She would say, "I surrender, Lieutenant. Please
forgive me." She smiled a trifle sadly to herself in anticipation of
the forgiving arms that Marjorie would extend to her. She was not sure
she merited forgiveness.

But when at last Marjorie came in sight of the gate, Mary vented an
exclamation of pain and anger. Marjorie was not alone. Up the walk she
loitered, arm-in-arm with Constance Stevens. The old jealousy, forgotten
in Marjorie's hour of triumph, swept Mary like a blighting wind. She
turned and fled from the hated sight that met her eyes, a deserter to
her good intentions.

CHAPTER XX

HOISTING THE FLAG OF TRUCE

Thanksgiving Day walked in amid a flurry of snow, accompanied by a
boisterous wind, which roared a bleak reminiscence of that first
Thanksgiving Day on a storm rock-bound coast, when a few faithful souls
had braved his fury and gone forth to give thanks for life and liberty.
Despite his challenging roar, the boys of Weston High School played
their usual game of football against a neighboring eleven and emerged
from the field of conquest, battered and victorious, to rest i