once and for all to Marjorie, or
should she go on enduring in silence? Perhaps it would be best to speak
and have things out. Then, at least, they would understand each other.
Then her pride whispered to her that it was Marjorie's and not her place
to speak. Marjorie must know something of her state of mind. At heart
she must be just the least bit ashamed of herself for shutting her out
of her personal affairs. Had they not sworn long ago to tell each other
their secrets. _She_ had always kept her word. It was Marjorie who had
failed to do so. No, she would not humble herself. Marjorie might keep
her secrets, for all _she_ cared. She was sorry that she had ever come
to Sanford. Now that she was here she would have to stay. If she wrote
her father to take her away, her mother would have to be told. Mary was
resolved that no matter what happened to her, her mother must be spared
all anxiety. She would try to bear it. Marjorie should never know how
deeply she was wounded. She would pretend that all was as it had been
before.

Mrs. Dean looked up from her letters, as the two girls entered the
dining room.

"Hurry, children," she admonished. "You haven't much time to spare.
These social affairs completely break up army discipline. Look out you
don't go to sleep at your post this morning."

"Who's sleepy? Not I," boasted Marjorie. "I feel as though I'd slept for
hours and hours. Your army is ready for duty, Captain. Lieutenant Mary's
headache has been put to rout and everything is lovely."

"Are you sure you feel quite well, dear?" questioned Mrs. Dean
anxiously. She noted that Mary was very pale and that her eyes looked
strained and tired.

"I'm quite well now, thank you." The ghost of a smile flickered on her
pale face.

"Did you enjoy the dance? It was nice in Connie to give it in your
honor. We are all very fond of her and of little Charlie."

Mary's wan face brightened at the mention of the child's name. "Isn't he
dear?" she asked impulsively.

"Mary has stolen Charlie from me," put in Marjorie. "He adores her
already. I don't blame him. So do I, and so does Connie, too. We three
are going to have splendid times together this winter."

During the rest of the breakfast Marjorie regaled her mother with an
account of the dance. Mary said little or nothing, but amid her friend's
merry chatter her silence passed unnoticed.

"Wear your raincoats," called Mrs. Dean after them, as, their breakfast
finished, they ran