rposeful
member of her class merely argues that an almost abnormally high
standard of purposefulness was maintained by practically every
individual in it.

At Rogers every graduating class has its fad; its propaganda for a
crusade against the most startling evils of the world. One year, the
sacred outlines of the human figure are protected against
disfigurement by an ardent group of young classicists in Grecian
draperies. The next, a fierce young brood of vegetarians challenge a
lethargic world to mortal combat over an Argentine sirloin. The year
of Beulah's graduation, the new theories of child culture that were
gaining serious headway in academic circles, had filtered into the
class rooms, and Beulah's mates had contracted the contagion
instantly. The entire senior class went mad on the subject of child
psychology and the various scientific prescriptions for the direction
of the young idea.

It was therefore primarily to Beulah Page, that little Eleanor Hamlin,
of Colhassett, Massachusetts, owed the change in her fortune. At least
it was to Beulah that she owed the initial inspiration that set the
wheel of that fortune in motion; but it was to the glorious enterprise
and idealism of youth, and the courage of a set of the most intrepid
and quixotic convictions that ever quickened in the breasts of a mad
half dozen youngsters, that she owed the actual fulfillment of her
adventure.

The sound of the door-bell brought the three girls to their feet, but
the footfalls in the corridor, double quick time, and accentuated,
announced merely the arrival of Jimmie Sears, and Peter Stuyvesant,
nicknamed _Gramercy_ by common consent.

"Has she come?" Peter asked.

But Jimmie struck an attitude in the middle of the floor.

"My daughter, oh! my daughter," he cried. "This suspense is killing
me. For the love of Mike, children, where is she?"

"She's coming," Beulah answered; "David's bringing her."

Gertrude pushed him into the _chaise-lounge_ already in the
possession of Margaret, and squeezed in between them.

"Hold my hand, Jimmie," she said. "The feelings of a father are
nothing,--_nothing_ in comparison to those which smolder in the
maternal breast. Look at Beulah, how white she is, and Margaret is
trembling this minute."

"I'm trembling, too," Peter said, "or if I'm not trembling, I'm
frightened."

"We're all frightened," Margaret said, "but we're game."

The door-bell rang again.

"There they come," Beulah sa