could help make Lucy’s dream of going to college come true as soon as her high school days were over. She knew that Lucy was too proud and sensitive to accept from anyone the money to continue her education. Yet Marjorie determined then that if ever she could become the means of helping to realize the other girl’s ambition, she would be happy.

A tender little smile lingered on her lips as she returned the letter to its envelope and tucked it inside her blouse. Very reluctantly she reached for her Cicero and was soon lost in preparing for her next hour’s recitation. Marjorie had not been able to arrange her senior program so as to have the coveted last hour in the afternoon for study. In the morning Advanced English and French Prose and Poetry took up the first two periods, leaving her the last one free. After luncheon the first afternoon period was now devoted to study. During the next she recited in Cicero and the third and last period was given over to a recitation in Greek and Roman History. As she had already gained the required amount of credits in mathematics, she was satisfied to forego trigonometry. She was not fond of mathematics and had decided not to burden her senior year with the further study of them. Once in college she knew she would have her fill of trigonometry.

“I’ve something to report, Captain,” was her gay sally as, school over for the day, she tripped into the living room. “I’ve the dearest letter from Lucy Warner. I’m going to sit right down and read it to you. I found it waiting for me on my desk when I went back to school this afternoon. For just a minute it made me feel queerly. You can understand why. But it was very different from—well, you know.” Marjorie unpinned her pretty white hemp hat and hastily depositing it on the library table, plumped down on the floor at her mother’s knee. Dignified senior though she had now become, she had not outgrown her love for that lowly but most confidential resting place.

“That is pleasant news.” Mrs. Dean glanced affectionately down at her daughter, who was busily engaged in exploring the folds of her silk blouse for the letter.

“Why!” A frightened look overspread Marjorie’s lately radiant face. “Why, it’s gone! Oh, Captain, I’ve lost it!”

“Perhaps it has slipped to the back of your blouse, dear.” Mrs. Dean became the acme of maternal solicitude. “Unfasten your blouse and look carefully.”

Ready to cry, Marjorie sprang to her feet and obeyed the instruction, but the missing letter was not forthcoming. “How could I have lost it,” she mourned despairingly. “I always tuck my letters inside my blouse. But I’ve never lost one before to-day.”

“I don’t like to pile up misery, Lieutenant, but that seems to me a rather careless practice,” commented her mother. “I am truly sorry for you. Perhaps you left it in school instead of putting it inside your blouse.”

Marjorie shook a dejected head. “No; I didn’t. I wish now that I had. I know I put it inside my blouse. I was anxious to bring it home and show it to you. I would feel worried about losing any letter that had been written me, but this is a great deal worse. It was a very confidential letter. In it Lucy spoke of—of—last winter and of her plans for the future. Suppose someone were to find it who didn’t like her very well? The person who found it might gossip about it. That would be dreadful. Of course, anyone who finds it can see by the address that it is my letter. I think most of the girls would be honorable enough to give it back. A few of them perhaps wouldn’t. None of the four juniors who were on the sophomore basket-ball team last year like me very well. And there’s Mignon, too. I wouldn’t say so to anyone but you, Captain, but I’m not quite sure what she might do.”

“No, my dear, I am afraid you can never trust Mignon La Salle very far.” Mrs. Dean grew grave. “I made up my mind to that the day your girl friends were here at that little party you gave while you were sick. If ever a girl’s eyes spelled treachery, Mignon’s showed it that afternoon. Several times I have intended mentioning it to you. You know, however, that I do not like to interfere in your school affairs. Then, too, since her father so depends on your help and that of your girl chums, it seems hardly right in me to wish that you might be entirely free from her companionship. Yet, at heart, I am not particularly in favor of your association with her. Sooner or later you will find yourself in the thick of some disagreeable affair for which she is responsible.”

“I am always a little bit afraid of that, too,” was Marjorie’s dispirited answer. “I try not to think so, though. But it’s like trying to walk across a slippery log without falling off. Mignon is so—so—different from the rest of us. You know I told you of the things she said about that nice girl who works for Miss Archer and her sister. Well, the girl came to school to-day. Her name is Veronica Browning and she’s a senior.”

Marjorie went on to tell her captain of the locker-room incident, and the walk home from luncheon, ending with: “She is awfully dear and sweet. We are friends already. I may invite her to come and see us, mayn’t I, Captain?”

“By all means,” came the prompt response. “I am very glad, Lieutenant, that you have no false pride. It is contemptible. You may invite your new friend here as soon as you like. No doubt when I see Miss Archer she will tell me more of her protégé of her own accord. Judging from what you say of her, she seems to be a rather mysterious young person.”

“She acts a little as Connie used to act before I knew her well,” declared Marjorie. “She has the same fashion of starting to say something and then stopping short. I think it is only because she is quite poor. But she doesn’t seem to mind it as Connie did. She just smiles about it.”

“A young philosopher,” commented Mrs. Dean, her eyes twinkling. “I shall look forward to knowing her.”

“Oh, you will surely like Veronica,” Marjorie confidently predicted. The next instant her face fell. “Oh, dear,” she sighed, as fresh recollection of her loss smote her, “what shall I do about that letter? I’ll simply have to tell Lucy that I lost it. She’s so peculiar, too. I am afraid she won’t like it.”

“Don’t put off telling her,” counseled Mrs. Dean. “It is right that you should. Perhaps when you go to school to-morrow morning, you may find that some one of your friends has picked it up. I sincerely hope so, for your sake, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Marjorie brightened a trifle. “I am going to hope as hard as ever I can that I’ll have it back by to-morrow.”

Marjorie’s earnest wish that the lost letter might be returned to her the next morning met with unfulfillment. Anxious inquiry among her close friends revealed no clue to the whereabouts of the missing letter. Nor, during the long day which anxiety made longer, did any of her schoolmates seek her with the joyful news, “Here is a letter I found, Marjorie, which is addressed to you.”

At the close of the afternoon session, which had lagged interminably, Marjorie turned slow steps toward Miss Archer’s big living-room office where Lucy Warner now claimed the secretary’s desk.

“Why, Marjorie, I was just thinking of you!” Lucy’s bluish-green eyes lighted with pleasure as Marjorie approached her desk. “I was hoping you’d run up soon to see me. I am so glad my hope came true.” Her hand went out to Marjorie in cordial greeting.

“I am ever so glad to have a chance to talk to you,”