am going to vote for Lulu Bell," she said shortly.

It was an exciting moment when Beverly Randolph and Rob Rossiter--the
two oldest boys present--counted the votes and announced the results:
"Elsie Carleton, thirteen. Lulu Bell, nine. Marjorie Graham, five.
Gertie Rossiter, three, and Winifred Hamilton, one."

The presidency of the Club was unanimously accorded to Elsie.

Then came an hour of games and dancing, followed at half-past nine, by
light refreshments. But although Marjorie entered into the gayety with
the rest, her heart was very heavy, and she did not join in the
congratulations which were being showered upon the new president, in
which even Lulu's mother and aunt, who had come downstairs as soon as
the initiation was over, joined heartily. Beverly Randolph was a general
favorite, and devoted himself in turn to almost every girl in the room,
but he, too, held aloof from the new president. He and Marjorie had no
opportunity for private conversation till the refreshments were being
served, when he approached her corner, with a plate of ice-cream.

"Your 'Boring Life of New York' was fine," he remarked, pleasantly,
taking the vacant chair by her side. "I quite agree with your sentiment.
I voted for you."

"You are very kind," said Marjorie, blushing, "but it wasn't nearly as
good as several of the others. Lulu's was splendid. You--you didn't like
Elsie's?"

"No, I didn't," said Beverly bluntly, "and you didn't, either."

Marjorie's cheeks were crimson, but she made one desperate effort to
save her cousin.

"It was a beautiful little poem," she faltered, "only--only I
thought--but perhaps I was mistaken--I'm sure Elsie wouldn't have done
such a thing; it must have been a mistake."

Beverly said nothing, but he did not look convinced.

"Where--where did you see it before?" Marjorie went on desperately.

"In an old volume of 'St. Nicholas' at home. My mother used to take the
magazine when she was a little girl, and has all the volumes bound. I
used to be very fond of some of the old stories, and so was my sister
Barbara. I remember she learned that poem once to recite to Mother on
her birthday."

Marjorie's heart sank like lead. Well did she remember the old worn
volumes of St. Nicholas--relics of her own mother's childhood--over
which she had pored on many a rainy day at home. She cast an appealing
glance at Beverly.

"You won't tell?" she said unsteadily.

"Of course I won't; I'm not a cad. And