essay in her book after it had been borrowed by Marcia.

"Truly, I did not mean to even imply that she was to blame in any way," she ended, almost apologetically, "but she seemed to think I was. I would never have spoken of it at all, if Rosalind had not told you while she was searching for her essay. Nobody was more surprised than I was when I found it. And even now I don't—I can't understand what it all means."

"I can," said Joan, addressing the company at large. "It means that Marcia is trying to put on Alison the onus of a thing she did herself, and couldn't quite succeed."

"Oh, but I couldn't think that of her," Alison cried, distressed.

"My dear Alison, the trouble is that you think everybody is as honest as yourself. People like that usually do get taken in."

"Well, we can't do anything about it now, and we had better not talk about it any more," pronounced Katherine. "Let's forget it. Talk about something else. For instance—has anyone seen my ring? I've lost it again."

"Not that lovely pearl ring of yours, Kathy?"

"Yes. I've missed it for a week, but I kept thinking it would turn up. I generally remember to take it off when I wash my hands, but I can't remember—I wash my hands so often—"

"Kathy, you really are too careless—"

"Oh, the girls all recognize it and give it back to me when they find it; but they always find it in less than a week."

"There are the maids," suggested Polly.

"Oh, but I don't believe one of them would take anything."

"There you go again, Alison, with your 'everybody's honest.' I tell you everybody is not. There's a ghost or something in this school," insisted the incorrigible Joan. "Rachel lost her gold pencil a fortnight ago. Ever find it, Ray?"

"No. But I do leave my things about. It may have slipped out of sight somewhere."

"So it may. Let me know when it returns of its own accord. This thing reminds me of the title of a little French book I read once: Les Petits Mysteres de la Vie Humaine. If I've made mistakes, Mademoiselle is not here to correct me, and the rest of you couldn't. Anyway, it means 'The Little Mysteries of Human Life,'" said Joan, looking defiantly about her.

"Well, I don't like mysteries," remarked Evelyn. "What we need is a clean-up day, to find all these missing valuables, and clear up all the mysteries."

The supper bell broke up the conclave.

Chapter VI

MYSTERIES

The essays were handed in the next day, and after two days of what the girls termed "agonizing suspense," Miss Burnett announced to her class that the judges had made their decision. The best was Katherine's. No one had expected anything else, and there was heartfelt applause with no jealousy, as she received the prize, a handsome set of books. Alison's received second place, to her own surprise, for she was modest as to her own acquirements.

The rest were of about the same degree of excellence—laborious efforts, showing no originality of thought or discrimination. Still, they had tried, and Miss Burnett expressed in a few pleasant words her appreciation of their endeavors, as she returned their papers.

Finally, there were but two papers left on the desk. Miss Burnett took up one and glanced at the title.

"This one, The River of Time," she said, "has at least the merit of brevity. In the space of about seven hundred words the author has reviewed the history of English literature from its source to the present time—"

"Oh, that is mine, Miss Burnett," exclaimed Rosalind, starting. "Please don't read it. I know it's awful." She smiled frankly and beguilingly into the teacher's eyes. "It's the best I could do."

Miss Burnett could not help returning the smile with the essay.

"Is it really the best you could do, Rosalind?"

"It is, truly, Miss Burnett. I could hardly do that."

"Then, Rosalind, all I can say is that it is a pity. But at least you really tried, and perhaps next time you will try harder and do better."

She took up the last paper on the desk. "I have kept this one for the last because I wanted to talk with you a little about it, Marcia. I should like you to remain a few minutes after the class is dismissed."

Marcia said nothing. One after another the girls filed out, until she and the teacher were alone together. Then Miss Burnett unfolded the paper and turned to the girl before her.

"This essay is signed with your name, Marcia, in the sealed envelope that was kept in my desk until the judges' decision had been reached. No one knew who had written it. No one knows now, except myself. I have not even mentioned the title, The River Road, until I had talked with you alone. Did you talk with anyone else about your essay? You know I wished them to be entirely original."

"No, Miss Burnett, I never said a word to anybody about it," said Marcia, quite truthfully.

Miss Burnett looked grave and troubled. "Then it is very peculiar, Marcia, that your essay has nearly the same title as Rosalind's, and says the same thing, only in different words. How could that be, unless you talked over your essays together?"

"But we did not, truly, Miss Burnett. It just happened so." Marcia looked the teacher straight in the face, as if defying her to find a flaw in her statement. "Rosalind lost her book, and borrowed mine. Then she went out to play basketball without returning it. I had to borrow Alison's book to study for mine. She said she found the essay in it when she opened it to study. That is all I can tell you."

If there were any guile in this speech, Miss Burnett was too transparently honest herself to find it out. She looked troubled.

"Well, Marcia, it is very strange, but I must take your word for it. That is all, then."

Thanksgiving had come and gone, and the girls were settled down for the uneventful stretch that comes between Thanksgiving and Christmas. The seven friends were gathered in Alison's room, one raw, cold "Novemberish" afternoon for one of their old-time talks. Marcia had gone out shopping with Rosalind, for whom she seemed to have developed a sudden great friendship, and the girls had availed themselves of the opportunity to meet in their favorite gathering place without the embarrassment of her presence.

Polly had a question to propound.

"Why don't we like Marcia?"

"Well?" said Evelyn, when the silence had lasted for several minutes while each waited for the others to speak.

"Alison ought to be able to answer that question," said Kathy.

Alison was slow to speak. "I don't know," she said at last. "She is in all our classes; she is pretty; she obeys all the college regulations. She seems all right; but—well, she is my roommate, I don't like talking of her behind her back."

"Well, I don't mind a bit," said Joan the outspoken. "I can tell you what's wrong with her. She doesn't like us. She hates school. She calls it a jail. She hates lessons. She hates Miss Harland. I heard her say so once, when Miss Harland said no to something she wanted to do. I don't see why she came to Briarwood at all."

"Neither does she," put in Evelyn. "Her father sent her, that was why."

"Well, I don't like her, and I wish she roomed in another hall," said Joan; and no one gainsaid her, for there was no denying that Marcia took no pains to make herself popular.

Polly changed the subject abruptly.

"Kathy, did you ever