returned Marjorie earnestly as she took Lucy’s hand. “I received your letter. It was splendid. I loved every line of it. I—but I am afraid you won’t feel so glad that I came when I tell you what I’ve done.” A quick flush dyed Marjorie’s cheeks.

“I guess it is nothing very dreadful.” Lucy smiled her utmost faith in her pretty visitor.

“Lucy, I—well—I hate to tell you, but I’ve lost that letter you wrote me.” Marjorie looked the picture of anxiety as she made the disagreeable confession.

“You’ve lost it!” gasped Lucy, her heavy dark brows meeting in the old ominous frown.

“Yes. I tucked it inside my blouse,” went on Marjorie bravely, “and when I reached home it was gone.”

Lucy’s green eyes fastened themselves on Marjorie in an angry stare. For a moment her great liking for the gentle girl was swallowed up in wrath at her carelessness. Intensely methodical, Lucy found such carelessness hard to excuse. Remembering tardily how much she owed Marjorie, she made a valiant effort to suppress her anger. “It’s too bad,” she muttered. “I—you see—I gave you my confidence. I wouldn’t care to have anyone else know all that I wrote you.”

“Don’t I know that?” Marjorie asked almost piteously. “I can’t begin to tell you how dreadfully I feel about it. I know you think it careless in me to have tucked it inside my blouse. It was careless. I’ve waited all day, thinking someone who might have found it would return it. My name on the envelope ought to insure a prompt return if I dropped it in or near the school building. But if I lost it in the street and a stranger found it, then I’m afraid I wouldn’t stand much chance of getting it again.” Marjorie made a little gesture of hopelessness. “You must know how humiliated I feel over it. But that won’t bring the letter back,” she concluded with deep dejection.

During this long apology Lucy’s probing eyes had been riveted unblinkingly on Marjorie, as though in an effort to plumb the precise degree of the latter’s regret for the accident. “Don’t worry about it any more,” she said rather brusquely. “It may not amount to anything after all. If you dropped it in the street, the wind may have blown it away; then no one would ever see it. If you dropped it in the school building, it may be returned to you, or perhaps to me. My full name was signed at the end of it. It has taught me a lesson, though.”

Within herself Lucy knew that this last speech bordered on the unkind. Yet she could not resist making it. Although she was earnestly endeavoring to live up to the new line of conduct which she had laid down for herself on the day when she had confessed her fault to Marjorie, much of her former antagonistic attitude toward life still remained. Having, for years, cultivated a spirit of envy and bitterness, she was still more ready to blame than condone. A kind of fierce, new-born gratitude and loyalty toward Marjorie transcended momentarily her personal displeasure. It was not quite powerful enough, however, to check that one caustic remark. She had not yet learned the true secret of gratitude.

“I can’t blame you for feeling that I am not a safe confidant,” Marjorie made honest reply. “Still it hurts me to hear it. I must go now, Lucy. The girls are waiting for me outside. We are all going down to Sargent’s for ice cream. I’d love to have you come, too, if you are through with your work and would care to join us.”

“Thank you, but I shall be busy here for the next half hour,” Lucy returned, a tinge of stiffness in the reply. She wondered how Marjorie could thus so easily dismiss the annoying matter of the lost letter. Perhaps, after all, she was not half so sorry as she pretended to be.

“Please don’t think that I am trying to make light of my misdeed,” Marjorie said eagerly. Lucy’s curt refusal of the invitation bore a hint of offended pride. “I shall have that letter on my mind all the time until we learn what has become of it, or are sure that it hasn’t fallen into unfriendly hands.”

At the words “unfriendly hands” Lucy’s heavy brows again met. She mentally saw herself held up as an object for ridicule by some unknown person whom the letter might apprise of her secret ambitions. “That’s just the trouble,” she flashed forth sharply. “Hardly any of the girls at Sanford High understand me in the least. I am sure some of them would be only too glad for an opportunity to make fun of me. It wouldn’t be very pleasant for me if some morning I should walk into school and find that about half the girls here knew all about my personal business. You know, as well as I, how fast news travels among a lot of girls.”

“I understand—all—that—perfectly.” There was a faint catch in Marjorie’s clear utterance. “I can only say again that I am very, very sorry for my carelessness.”

“That won’t bring back my letter,” was the testy retort. “But never mind. Let’s not say anything more about it.” With a little shrug her green eyes sought the pile of papers on her desk.

Marjorie immediately took it as a sign that Lucy did not wish to talk further to her. Not angry, but distinctly hurt, she did not try to prolong the conversation but merely said: “Good-bye, Lucy. If I hear anything about the letter I will let you know at once.” Then she quietly left the office, trying not to blame Lucy for being so austere regarding the lost letter. Yet Marjorie was too human not to feel that having once freely forgiven Lucy of a far greater fault, she had expected to receive a certain amount of clemency in return, which the peculiar, self-contained senior had not offered.

CHAPTER IV—LAYING A CORNERSTONE

“Well, how about it?” challenged the irrepressible Jerry Macy. Marjorie joined the stout girl and Constance, who stood waiting for her across the street from the high school. Both friends knew why Marjorie had lingered in the school building when the afternoon session was over. They were among the first to whom she confided the news of yesterday’s loss. She had announced to them her intention of apprising Lucy Warner of the unpleasant fact, and Jerry in particular was curious to know what effect the disclosure would have upon Lucy.

“I’m glad that’s over.” Marjorie gave a little sigh. “It was pretty hard for me to tell Lucy. It served me right for being so careless, though.”

“What did she say? Was she mad?” Curiosity looked forth from Jerry’s round face.

“No; that is, not exactly. Still, she wasn’t very well pleased,” admitted Marjorie. “I hope someone finds the letter yet and brings it to me. But where are the rest of the girls?” She decided that a change of subject was in order. Lucy’s too-evident umbrage had hurt her considerably. She therefore preferred to try to forget it for a time at least.

“They’ve gone on ahead,” informed Constance. “Muriel had an errand to do in town and so had Susan. Irma and Harriet went with them. They are to meet us at Sargent’s at four-thirty.”

“Then we had better be starting for there.” Marjorie consulted her wrist watch. “It’s ten after four now. Let’s hurry along. Did either of you have a chance to talk with Veronica after school?” she continued as they set off for Sargent’s three abreast.

“I saw her for a moment in the locker room,” replied Constance. “She seemed to be in quite a hurry. She smiled at me but didn’t say anything. Then she put on her hat and left the locker room without stopping to talk to any of us.”