B----, where
Marjorie had been born and lived sixteen untroubled years of life, to
the smaller northern city of Sanford, where she didn't know a soul.

All that happened to Marjorie Dean from the first day in her new home
has been faithfully recorded in "MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMAN."
In that narrative was set forth her trials, which had been many, and her
triumphs, which had been proportionately greater, as a freshman in
Sanford High School. How she had become acquainted with Constance
Stevens and how, after never-to-be-forgotten days of storm and sunshine,
the friendship between the two young girls had flowered into perfect
understanding, formed a story of more than ordinary interest.

Now, after several happy weeks at the seashore, where the Deans had
rented a cottage and were spending their usual summer outing with
Constance as their guest, the two friends were enjoying the last perfect
days of mid-summer before returning to Sanford, where, in September,
Constance and Marjorie were to enter the delightful realm of the
sophomore, to which they had won admission the previous June.

There had been only one shadow to mar Marjorie's bliss. She had hoped
that her childhood friend and companion, Mary Raymond, might be with
them at the seashore, but, owing to the ill-health of Mary's mother, the
Raymonds had been obliged to summer in the mountains, where Mary was
needed at her mother's side. That Constance and Mary should meet and
become friends had ever been Marjorie's most ardent desire. It was
Constance's remarkable resemblance to Mary that had drawn her toward the
girl in the very beginning.

"It's all been so perfectly beautiful, Connie." Marjorie gave a little
sigh of sheer happiness. "I've only one regret."

"I know--you mean your chum, Mary," supplemented Constance, with quick
sympathy.

Marjorie nodded.

"It seems strange I haven't heard from her. She hasn't written me for
over two weeks. I hope her mother isn't worse."

"No news is good news," comforted Constance.

"Perhaps there will be a letter for me from her when we get back to the
cottage. Suppose there should be! Wouldn't that be glorious?"

"Perhaps we'd better go up now and see," suggested Constance. "It must
be time for the postman."

"We're not going until after you've had fifteen more minutes'
instruction in the noble art of swimming, you rascal," laughed
Marjorie. "See how self-sacrificing I am! You don't appreciate
my noble effort