at isn't really
good. Papa would never allow me to learn anything but the classics."

"Lulu says we mustn't read our poems to any one until the night of the
initiation," said Marjorie. "I know yours will be splendid, Elsie; you
are so clever."

Elsie smiled, well pleased by the compliment, and added rather
irrelevantly:

"I asked Lulu why she didn't invite Beverly Randolph to join the club.
He hasn't many friends in New York and might enjoy it. She says he is
older than any of the other boys, but she would be glad to have him if
he cares to join, so I am to ask him and let her know to-morrow. The
boys are not to be initiated, because they are only the amusement
committee, but they are all to come to the first meeting, and vote on
the poems."

Nothing more was said on the subject just then, but Elsie was careful to
deliver the message to Beverly that evening, and the invitation was
readily accepted.

"The girl who writes the best poem is to be president, you know," Elsie
explained, with her sweetest smile. "You must be sure to come to the
first meeting and vote for the one you like best."

"I am afraid I'm not very well up on poetry," said Beverly, laughing.
"It's a lucky thing the boys aren't expected to write poems as well as
the girls; I am sure I should disgrace myself hopelessly if I were to
attempt anything original."

"Oh, no, you wouldn't," Elsie protested. "You have no idea how easy it
really is. Of course some of the poems will be dreadfully silly, but you
don't have to vote for them."

It was Thanksgiving week, so school closed on Wednesday, not to open
again till the following Monday. Elsie had several invitations for the
holidays, but Marjorie, whose New York acquaintances were still limited
to the girls at Miss Lothrop's, had only the first meeting of the Club
on Friday evening to which to look forward. She wrote her poem on
Wednesday evening, while Elsie was at a theater party, and although far
from satisfied with it, decided that it would have to do, as she had
several hard lessons to prepare for Monday, and there was no more time
for writing poetry.

"Of course it won't be nearly as good as Elsie's," she told herself
cheerfully. "She is sure to be voted president."

She had asked her cousin that evening if she had written her poem, and
Elsie had replied carelessly that there was plenty of time, and she
would probably do it to-morrow.

"It really isn't worth bothering about," she had added,