s had discovered, as
she neared them, that her companion was not Constance Stevens. Marjorie,
at once, did the honors and Mary found herself nodding in quick
succession to half a dozen girls.

"You fooled us all for a minute, Miss Raymond," cried Muriel Harding.

"She didn't fool me," announced Jerry Macy, who had joined them just in
time to hear Muriel's remark. "I knew she was coming, but I kept still
because I wanted to see you girls stare."

"Look around the room, Marjorie," observed Irma Linton in a guarded
tone. "Do you miss anyone? Not Constance. I wonder where she is?"

"I don't know." Marjorie's eyes took in the big room, then again sought
the door. "She said she would meet me here this morning. Let me see. Do
I miss anyone? Do you mean a girl in our class, Irma?"

Irma nodded.

Marjorie cast another quick look about her. "Why, no. Oh, now I know.
You mean Mignon."

Again Irma nodded. Under cover of a burst of laughter from the others
she murmured, "Mignon won't be with us this year. You will observe, if
you look hard, that I'm not weeping over our loss."

Marjorie was silent for a moment. The past rode before her like a
panorama, as the thought of the elfish-faced French girl and of how
deeply she had caused both herself and Constance Stevens to suffer. Her
pretty face hardened a trifle as she said, in a low voice, "I'm not
sorry, either, Irma. But why won't she be in high school this year? Has
she moved away from Sanford? I haven't seen her since we came home from
the beach."

"She has gone away to boarding school," answered Irma. "Between you and
me, I think she was ashamed to come back here this year. Susan told me
that her father wanted her to stay in high school and go to college, but
she teased and teased to go away to school, so finally he said she
might. She left here over two weeks ago. One of the girls received a
letter from her last week. In it she said she was so glad she didn't
have to go to a common high school and that the girls in her school were
not milk-and-water babies, but had a great deal of spirit and daring."

Marjorie's lip curled unconsciously. "I'd rather be a 'milk-and-water
baby' than as cruel and heartless as she. I'll never forgive her for the
way she treated Connie. Let's not talk of her, Irma. It makes me feel
cross and horrid, and, of all days, I'd like to be happy to-day. There's
so much to be happy over, and I'm so glad to see all of you. Life would
be a desert wa