sation between the two
women had ceased and the house had apparently settled down for the
night, Mary crept softly out of her room and down the stairs. Opening
the hall door with stealthy fingers, she stepped into the vestibule. She
listened intently for a sign from above that her soft-footed journey
down the stairs had been discovered. But none came. Turning deliberately
about, she retraced her steps, closing the hall door with sufficient
force to announce her arrival. Without attempt at stealth she walked
across the hall, up the stairs and into the pretty blue room that she
had lately left. The closing of her own door purposely sounded her home
coming.

"Is that you, Mary?" called Marjorie's voice from the next room.

Mary trembled with positive relief at the signal success of her
manoeuver. Steadying her voice, she replied, "Yes, it is I."

"Did you have a nice time?"

Mary read merely polite inquiry in the tone. It lacked Marjorie's former
warmth and affection.

"Not particularly." Impulsively she added, "I missed you, Marjorie. I'm
sorry you weren't there." Breathlessly she waited for a response.

But Marjorie was only human. Resentment against Mignon, rather than
Mary, permeated her reply. "It's nice in you to say so, but I am very
glad I wasn't there. I should consider an invitation to Mignon La
Salle's party as anything but an honor." It was the first deliberately
cutting speech that Marjorie Dean had ever uttered. Realizing its
cruelty she called out contritely, "That was hateful in me, Mary. Please
forget what I said."

"Oh, it doesn't matter. Good night." Mary managed to force the
indifferent answer. She felt that she deserved even this and more. She
was rapidly learning to her sorrow that, when one plants nettles, in
time they are sure to grow up and sting.

CHAPTER XXIII

FOR THE FAME OF SANFORD HIGH

When Marjorie Dean went down to breakfast the following morning it was
with the feeling that her sharp answer to Mary's unexpected comments of
the night before had been unworthy of her better self. Mary's reply,
"Oh, it doesn't matter," had somehow sounded wistful rather than
indifferent. To be sure, Mary had literally forced upon her the reserved
stand which she had at last taken. Yet underneath her proud attitude of
distant courtesy toward the girl who had once taken first place in her
friendship still lurked the faint hope of reconciliation. But she had
made her last advance on that mem