wered this!"

"To college?" gasped Miss Cordelia.

"Yes," said Mary, still intent upon her panorama, "there's a good one in
California. I'll look it up."

The more Mary thought of it, the fonder she grew of her idea--which is, I
think, a human trait and true of nearly every one. It was in vain that
her aunts argued with her, pointing out the social advantages which she
would enjoy from attending Miss Parsons' School. Mary's objection was
fundamental. She simply didn't care for those advantages. Indeed, she
didn't regard them as advantages at all.

Helen did, though.

In her heart Helen had always longed to tread the stage of society--to
her mind, a fairyland of wit and gallantry, masquerades and music, to say
nothing of handsome young polo players and titled admirers from foreign
shores--"big fools," all of them, as you can guess, when dazzled by the
smiles of Youth and Beauty.

"Mary can go to California if she likes," said Helen at last, "but give
me Miss Parsons' School."

And Mary did go to California, although I doubt if she would have gained
her point if her father hadn't taken her part. For four years she
attended the university by the Golden Gate, and every time she made the
journey between the two oceans, sometimes accompanied by Miss Cordelia
and sometimes by Miss Patty, she seemed to be a little more serene of
glance, a little more tranquil of brow, as though one by one she were
solving some of those problems which I have mentioned above.

Meanwhile Helen was in her glory at Miss Parsons'; and though the two
aunts didn't confess it, they liked to sit and listen to her chatter of
the girls whose friendship she was making, and to whose houses she was
invited for the holidays.

When she was home, she sang snatches from the operas, danced with
imaginary partners, rehearsed parts of private theatricals and dreamed of
conquests. She had also learned the knack of dressing her hair which,
when done in the grand manner, isn't far from being a talent. Pulled down
on one side, with a pin or two adjusted, she was a dashing young duchess
who rode to hounds and made the old duke's eyes pop out. Or she could dip
it over her ears, change a few pins again and--lo!--she was St. Cecilia
seated at the organ, and butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

"She is quite pretty and very clever," said Miss Cordelia one day. "I
think she will marry well."

"Do you think she's as pretty as Mary?" asked Miss Patty.

"My dear!"