forgiveness was clearly out of the question. So the one thing left was revenge.

Yet what revenge was possible? None, absolutely none. That afternoon she was utterly powerless to shake by any act of hers the equanimity of those three complacent young persons. There was nothing belonging to them which she could smash, hide, or appropriate. There was nothing they had ever said or done which now, in her hour of need, she could use against them. They were in fact so impossibly, so hopelessly—no, not exactly virtuous, but proper, that the mere contemplation of their colorless lives threw Margery into a most deplorable state of hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness.

As the hopelessness of revenge settled on Margery's spirit, a feeling of loneliness began to creep over her. She could think of nothing to do, and of nobody to whom she might appeal for sympathy or amusement. The limitless expanse of an idle afternoon stretched out before her like a desert. Henry had gone fishing, and Willie Jones—Willie Jones! With that name came a dazzling thought, a plan full-blown, a balm sweet to her soul, a glorious solution!

Margery skipped up to the porch and called out in a coaxing, pleasant tone: "Mamma, may I take a little walk?" The maternal voice, plainly relieved that the storm had spent itself, gave consent, and Margery danced out the front gate and up the street, her heart thumping fast in exultation.

O-oh! Let Katherine and Alice distribute as many of their calling-cards as possible, for soon they will have no further use for them. Soon—to be exact, by the time they get home—they will be disgraced, horribly disgraced, and no one will ever care to receive them or their visits again. Even Gladys, their adored Gladys, will give them one cold glance of scorn and turn her back. It was hard, certainly, not to be able to include Gladys in the impending doom. But, after all, Katherine and Alice were the more culpable, for had they not cast aside all feelings of sisterly relationship? Let them, then, bear the brunt of the punishment.

After a fashion Margery was grateful to Gladys, for it was really Gladys who had placed in her hands the weapon she was about to use. Gladys was forever saying to Katherine and Alice: "If you're not careful, Margery will disgrace you all some day. Then how will you feel? No one will play with you; no one will even speak to you on the street. And it won't be your fault, either. But, you see, everybody'll know Margery is your sister."

Yes, every one would know, and Margery, as she skipped along, gloated in the thought. It went without saying that, in disgracing the others, Margery was willing to sacrifice herself. Willing? She was almost too willing. In fact, it must be confessed that there was something in the present undertaking which, quite apart from all anticipations of revenge, hummed a gay little tune in her ear, and tempted her hurrying feet into many a frisky little side-step. From time to time she had to nudge herself, as it were, to remember that her purpose was one of retributive justice, that the end was what her soul hungered after—not the means.

She gave a passing regret to the afternoon shoes she was wearing, the white stockings, the clean dress, the great pink bow of ribbon in her hair. Likely enough these would be sadly draggled before the deed was done. But even that thought did not check her haste nor cause her for one second to pause or look back.

er road lay toward the open country. At last, leaving behind all lines of houses, she crawled under a barbed-wire fence into a broad meadow where a few cows were grazing; then over a creek into another meadow, and up to a grassy knoll just ahead. From beyond it faint shouts were coming. At the foot of the knoll Margery rested a few moments, then pushed bravely on to the very gate of her adventure.

From the top of the knoll she looked down the other side to a tiny pond where five little boys were playing and splashing. The minute they spied Margery they sank to their chins in the muddy water and raised frantic hands and voices:

"Go 'way from here! Go 'way from here! We're swimmin'! We're swimmin'!"

With considerable inward trepidation but outward calm, Margery descended toward them.

"We're swimmin'! We're swimmin'!" the little boys kept on shouting inanely until Margery was forced to make some acknowledgment of the information.

"Oh!" she called out in sarcasm undisguised, "I thought you was flying!"

That seemed to make the little boys angry. They redoubled their cries and gesticulations.

"Go 'way from here! Go 'way from here! You're a girl! You're a girl!"

"Is that so? I'm a girl, am I? I'm so glad to hear it!"

Margery sat down near the water's edge and gazed across defiantly at the little boys, who were clustered together at the far end of the pond. They were not her match at sarcasm and so were forced to answer with inarticulate jeers. For a few seconds no more words were exchanged. Then one of the boys attempted a parley.

"Margery," he began. It was Willie Jones. There was a plea and a protest in his voice.

"Well?"

Margery's sharp interrogation gave so little encouragement that Willie Jones desisted.

Freddy Larkin next essayed the part of spokesman for the boys. Freddy had curly hair and a lisp.

"Mardthery!"

"Well?"

"Dare you to come in thwimmin'! Dare you to come in thwim——"

Willie Jones choked further utterance with a splash of water. But, though he silenced Freddy, the other three instantly took up the cry, "Dare you to come in swimmin'! Dare you to come in swimmin'!"

Margery's moment had come.

"Huh! You think I'm afraid, don't you? Well, I ain't!"

She pulled off her shoes, rolled down her white stockings, and then, standing up, very deliberately began unbuttoning the back of her dress.

For the boys this was a turn of events unexpected and most disconcerting. Not for a moment did they really want her to accept their dare. Why, whoever heard of a girl doing such a thing? The very thought scandalized them deeply. Indeed, they would stop her if they could, but it was utterly beyond their powers of expression to tell her that the dare was a mere joke, a pleasantry that had better be forgotten. Unable to explain this, they wriggled about uncomfortably in the water and hid their growing confusion in half-hearted jeers.

When the dress was discarded, every little boy there hoped in his soul that this might be all. The proprieties would not be utterly demolished if Margery would only treat as a bathing-suit her skimp little undervest and bloomers. But Margery would not. She calmly proceeded to undo the buttons which made these two garments one.

"Margery!" There was an almost agonized pleading in Willie Jones's voice.

"Willie Jones, will you shut up! Just because you live near us you needn't think you're my brother. 'Cause you ain't. Besides, girls can do the same as boys."

There was a last tug; those