ng nothing.

Jean wound up her narration with, "I know it is all my fault, Miss
Harlowe, but truly I tried to make things come right for you. I told
Miss Wharton all about myself and tried to make her understand that you
weren't in the least to blame for my misdeeds. But I only made matters
worse. She is contemptible." Jean's voice vibrated with bitter scorn.

"I thank you for defending me." Grace spoke unemotionally. "I hope that
President Morton will overlook the charge against you. I must go now. I
wish to be alone. I must decide what I am to do. Good night." She had
remained standing near the door during Jean's recital, now she opened it
and walked slowly down the hall to her own door.

She entered her pretty room as one might enter a chamber of death. So
the end had come. Well, she would meet it with a stout heart and a clear
conscience. But she would not wait for Miss Wharton to charge her with
being unfit for the trust Mrs. Gray had reposed in her. She stepped to
the library table and, opening a drawer, took out a sheet of her own
monogrammed stationery and an envelope. Seating herself at the table, she
took her pen from its rack. After a little thought she began writing in
the clear, strong hand that characterized her. Her letter consisted of
not more than a dozen lines. When she had finished she sealed, stamped,
and addressed it to President Morton with a firm, unfaltering hand.

Wrapping a light scarf about her shoulders, she stole softly downstairs
and outdoors without being observed by the knot of girls in the living
room. Crossing the campus, she dropped her letter into the post box at
the farther side, nearest the street. Then she walked slowly back,
stopping at her favorite bench under the giant elm. The moon, almost at
the full, flooded the wide green stretch with her pale radiance. The
fringed arms of the old elm waved her a gentle welcome.

Grace sank upon the rustic seat racked with many emotions. How often she
had sat there and dreamed of what her work was to be, and now, just as
she had begun to reap the glory of it, it was to be snatched from her.

The soft beauty of the spring night coupled with the ordeal through
which she had just passed filled her with an unspeakable sadness. She
bowed her head upon her hands, but her thoughts lay too deep for tears.
Yet even while she sat for the last time in the spot she loved so
dearly, Kathleen West and Patience Eliot were standing side by side
reading