How fine it would be if one could foresee the result of every action! Hester Alden's slight prevarication to Robert Vail, when she told him that her father had been Miss Debby's brother, carried with it a long series of misunderstandings. Had Robert Vail known the facts—but he did not.

Hester, bearing within her heart the consciousness of her own fault, spent not a few unhappy moments with herself. To it, she attributed the former entanglement, between herself and Helen. She reached this conclusion because she knew of nothing else on account of which Helen might have misjudged her. Several times, she decided to speak of the matter to Helen and confess that she had misrepresented matters when she had declared that she belonged to the Alden family; but each time, her courage failed her, and her pride prevented. It is not an easy matter for one to confess that she has, in her statements, deviated from the truth.

The morning following the coming of the girls to Valehurst, Robert Vail left home early and by a hard drive over the mountains at length reached the junction where railroad communication had not been cut off.

Mrs. Perkins expected him to return with his mother the following day; but they were detained by business. So Valehurst was left without a host or hostess. Mrs. Perkins exerted herself to make the guests comfortable and the servants, with which the home was well provided, vied with each other in their attendance upon the young ladies. The girls were thoroughly enjoying their experience, Hester, perhaps most of all, for such a household was new to her. She liked to play lady of the manor.

"Don't you wish you and I could live this way?" she said to Debby Alden, during the second day of the enforced visit. Debby Alden looked at the questioner and then asked, "Are you not satisfied, Hester, with your own little home?"

"Yes, I am!" cried the girl impulsively. "A little house with Aunt Debby is better than a mansion without her. I am really satisfied. Yet it does seem nice to be here. I feel quite at home."

"I presume a lady feels at home in any cultivated environment," was the rejoinder. Debby paused a moment. She was not one to repeat the tales which came to her ears; but when, as in this instance, her sympathies were touched and she felt that her story might bear with it a moral, it might be really worth her while to repeat it to Hester.

"Valehurst is very beautiful, Hester. We recognize that; but it cannot bring happiness to those who dwell in it. Mrs. Vail has a great sorrow. What it is, I do not know. I did not care to inquire. Robert told me that his mother, years ago, had a bereavement from which she has never recovered, and to which she has never become reconciled. The servants speak as though she were a woman saddened by some dreadful experience."

"But Helen says she is very cheerful and can never do enough to make others happy."

"Outwardly, perhaps. From what I have learned, she is one who has strength of character enough to keep her sorrows to herself and not burden others. Of course, she would try to make Helen and every one else happy, even though she were most miserable herself. I would not have spoken of the matter, had I not thought you were estimating one's happiness by the amount of material wealth one possessed.

"Poor Mrs. Vail! I am a happier woman than she. I have just my little home and my girl, but I am very content."

"So am I, Aunt Debby." She pressed Debby Alden's arm closer within her hand. Then she added, "Wasn't it a good thing that I was left to you. Wouldn't it have been dreadful if I had been taken somewhere else and you would have been left alone. Just think how lonely we would have been."

"Yes, it would have been hard; but it didn't happen that way. It was intended that you should be my girl."

"You mustn't think that I was discontented because I wished that you and I lived in a mansion. I am not one bit discontented. I was just wishing."

"Learn to be contented. Folks are miserable otherwise. The Aldens, taking them as a family, were not complainers or grumblers—except Ezra, and how he ever came by it, I do not know. He was never contented. He wouldn't go to school, and he wouldn't farm, and he wouldn't be satisfied anywhere or with anything."

"Ezra? Who was he, Aunt Debby? I never heard you mention his name before."

"He was my oldest brother. He would be a man of sixty if he were living now. I never mentioned him, because he is more of a memory than anything else. He was only sixteen when he ran off west. He wrote a few times. The letters were two or three years apart, and always from different sections. At one time he was on a ranch, another time in the gold fields. He could not be contented long anywhere."

"Where is he now, Aunt Debby?"

"Dead, Hester. Dead long ago. At least we think so. For years, no letters have come from him. When father died, we sent word everywhere, but he never replied. We said then that he was dead."

"If he had lived, I'd have had an uncle. I should like an uncle. From what I've read, they are very jolly."

"You can not always believe what you read," was the sententious rejoinder.

The guests remained at Valehurst three days, during which time neither Mrs. Vail nor Robert appeared, although the latter sent many messages to the girls, through the medium of his cousin or the housekeeper.

Thursday morning, word came from Doctor Weldon that the students must return to school and make ready their belongings to go home. Commencement was not to be considered. The graduates would receive their diplomas, but there could be no festivities.

The students had been taken care of in the country houses which stood on the hills back of Flemington. These were the only places for miles about which had not been flooded. As soon as communication with other places had been made, Doctor Weldon was kept busy sending and receiving telegrams. Each father and mother was distracted when news of the flooding of Lockport came.

By Thursday evening, the students had returned. The drift and dirt had been removed from the Seminary building, and the campus had been freed from logs and driftwood. But some things could never be replaced. The old apple trees had been uprooted; the grassy slope which had lain close to the river front had been washed out to gravel bottom. The gray bricks of the building showed the water mark and at the corner a few misplaced ones told the story of how the old lamp post had saved the building.

The once beautiful halls were water-stained; hard-wood floors were warped until they stood in little hollows and hills; and the polished wood of the doors and balustrades had lost all semblance of beauty.

The girls rushed into one another's arms. They could talk now of the flood for the danger had passed from them. The dormitories were a babel of voices. A score of girls talked at once and not one listened to another.

Miss Burkham from the hall below heard the confusion and retired to her own apartments. She had no thought of interfering with the chatter. She explained her lack of discipline to Doctor Weldon later. "This will never happen again in all their lives. As long as they were talking, they were forgetful that the opportunity for the banquet, the play, and commencement had been taken from them. I thought it wise to put up with the noise, rather than have them feel depressed."

The girls were discussing the play and banquet even then. There were confessions on all sides.

"We intended feasting on the senior banquet," cried Erma. "We had bribed Belva. He was to lead the caterers up to our third floor. You seniors would have sat waiting in the Philo Hall below."

"No, indeed. You reckoned without considering that the senior class were not all dullards. We had heard of your plans. Doctor Weldon gave us permission to hold the banquet at a hotel in the city. Miss Burkham and the Fraulein were to go with us. So while you girls would have been sitting in the attic waiting for the banquet, we would have been whirling away in cabs to the city." Helen had a smile of triumph as she told the story. If the seniors had been robbed of their opportunity to outwit the juniors, they at least would not miss the chance of boasting of it.

Erma looked at her quizzingly. "Was that really true?" she asked. "Well, I have this much to say. If the seniors had outwitted us, we in turn outwitted the freshmen. They were gloating over the fact that they had a copy of our play."

"We did," cried Hester. "And we had the parts almost learned."

"Yes, I was to be the queen," said Emma. "I knew my part. I was to—."

"You the queen!" said Edna Bucher, with a touch of sarcasm in her voice. "I could not possibly conceive of you taking such a part."

"Well, you never did have much imagination. You should cultivate it," was Emma's quick rejoinder.

"Please do not quarrel," said Josephine as she raised her soulful eyes and let them rest upon each girl in turn. "This may be our last time together. It would be so sweet to carry with us pleasant memories. Let us have sweet—."

"Not too much, though," said Emma. "You always were a great girl for caramels and fudge, Jo; but you must remember some of the rest of us liked olives and pickles."

"Emma's speech in plain English, means that she prefers some wit to too much sentiment," said Hester.

"I most assuredly do," was the rejoinder, as Emma sat down on top of the trunk which had been brought in ready for packing.

The group of girls had gathered in Sixty-two. During the winter and spring terms, this room had been the general gathering place; for Hester and Helen were popular with the other students.

"I wish I might finish about the play," cried Erma. "Those miserable little freshmen thought they had our play. Yes, I know you took a copy from my study-table drawer. It was one I put in there for you to take. While you were busy learning that, we had another. So while you girls were gloating over the 'East Indian Queen,' we went on in peace and practised 'A Roumanian Princess.'"

"Really? Erma Thomas, do you mean it?"

"Do I mean it? I surely do. Oh, wasn't it fun to hear you practise and see you slip about with your mysterious airs!"

The door opened and Renee came in. She was robed in a full-length kimona.

"You girls sitting here doing nothing! I am packing. I do not intend letting it go until morning and then hurrying. My trunk is locked and I cannot find the keys. Will you lend me yours, Helen?"

Helen arose to get them from a drawer. Emma sighed as she looked at Renee.

"When I go to heaven," she said, "and meet Renee there, I know what she will say to me the very first thing."

The girls looked their queries and Emma concluded, "'Emma, please lend me your crown. I've mislaid mine.'"

"And Emma will be finding fault with everything. She'll feel dreadful because she is forced to be in heaven all the time," said Sara slowly. This was a hit direct at the little Dutch doll, for all through the year she had been complaining at the restrictions of school, and could not understand why Doctor Weldon did not allow the girls to go down to the city when they pleased.

During this conversation, Mame Cross had been sitting apart. Now Josephine turned to her, and assuming an attitude and expression of great solicitation and interest said, "Mame is the only one who feels what this evening means to us. Perhaps never again shall we talk together. No one knows what the summer will bring. Mame is overcome by the thought—."

"I am not. I was not thinking of that at all," Mame replied. "It came to me while the girls were talking of the banquet and play and commencement that I was almost glad that we were not having any of them."

"Mame Cross, what heresy! The flood has made her mad," cried the girls.

"I have reasons for thinking so. I simply could not have gone to one thing. What could I have worn if I had gone? I made up my mind when we had our last reception that I would never go to another unless I had something decent to wear."

"When I meet Mame in heaven," said Emma, trying to look serious, "the very first thing she will say is, 'My robe doesn't hang as well as yours, and my harp isn't so bright.'"

"Are you not getting a little irreverent?" said Helen gently. "There are so many common things to jest about. Is it not better to use them as the butt of our wit, instead of matters beyond our comprehension?"

"Yes, I suppose so, Helen," said Emma. "But, you know I never consider. I blurt out just what I wish to say."

The half-hour bell sounded and the girls went to their rooms to make ready to appear at the dining-table. The lower halls were yet damp although they had been open to the air and sun since the previous Sabbath. Doctor Weldon, not wishing to risk the health of the pupils, had converted a class-room on the second floor into a dining-hall. Here dinner was served informally; the students attending to their own wants, for the servants were kept busy carrying the trays from the floor below.

At the bringing-in of the last course, Doctor Weldon arose to make the announcements. She asked the young ladies to attend to their packing at once. Belva and Marshall had already brought down trunks and boxes from the store-room. Immediately after breakfast, the following morning, each young lady should call at the office when arrangements would be made for her going home.

There was too much to be done after dinner to permit of any visiting. The girls went to their rooms and began to dismantle them. Hester and Helen had much to do, but they contrived to carry on a steady flow of talk while they worked.

"Perhaps, we'll never be together again," said Hester, from the depths of the closet whither she had gone in search of shoes. "You will not be here next year. We may never meet again."

"I think we shall," said Helen. "The world is not a very large place. You are to visit me, you know. I shall ask your Aunt Debby when I see her."

"And you'll come to visit me. Couldn't you come this summer? You'd like Jane Orr and Ralph. He is the nicest boy I ever knew, except Robert Vail."

"Rob is nice. Yes, I think I can come. We could have a fine time."

Hester grew eloquent about the walks, picnics and drives they could have. Helen was accustomed to life in a mansion with a retinue of servants. Hester knew this. She knew also that at her home, Aunt Debby and she would perform all the household work and that Aunt Debby would set out her own flowers and plant a garden of radishes and lettuce with their kindred small garden truck. Helen would have no servants to wait upon her. Hester gave no thought to the difference in the household. To her, friendship was above all material conditions. As she felt concerning such matters, she took it for granted that all right-minded people must feel. She could not conceive the thought that Helen, as her friend, could be critical of the plain old-fashioned home where she and Aunt Debby were the home-makers. It was not training alone which gave Hester such impressions. She had within her the instinct of true nobility. She gave the best of what was hers without apology or explanation. She took it for granted that her offerings would be received in the same spirit. They were, for Helen Loraine valued a friend higher than the friend's possessions.

"I am very glad I asked you to forgive me, last Saturday," continued Helen. She was bending over the drawer of the chiffonier while she robbed it of its contents. "I could not have been happy had I gone home and not have made friends with you. It was my fault, Hester, that you did not play as a substitute on the first team. I thought something, and I told Miss Watson that I did not care to have you play. You do not know how sorry I have been since."

"Yes, I do. There, I think I have all my shoes ready to pack. Those old gym shoes I might as well throw out as rubbish. Yes, I do know, Helen. I felt dreadfully about it myself; but I thought you had a good reason. I myself despise a girl who prevaricates even a little."

Helen raised her head from her work to look at Hester. She could not fully grasp this last remark.

Hester, catching the peculiar expression of her friend's face continued, "You did not tell me why you were hurt with me. Of course I knew. It was what I said about my father being Aunt Debby's brother. That was it, was it not?"

"What an idea, you silly little Hester! Why should I be angry with you for saying that? What was it to me whether he was Miss Alden's brother or not?"

"I thought you knew and despised me for telling what was not true. I am not one bit an Alden. I do not belong to Aunt Debby except through love. My mother died at the Alden home. Somehow, I never could quite grasp all the story, for no one will tell me all. Somehow, Aunt Debby felt herself responsible and she took me and gave me her mother's name. Don't you think that very sweet of her? To Aunt Debby, Hester Palmer Alden was the name she loved the most and she gave it to me."

"Yes, she must have loved you, too, or she would never have given you that name. It was not what you said that caused me to be displeased with you. Shall I tell you?"

Hester shook her head slowly. She was yet sitting on the floor near the door of the closet. All about her, were odds and ends of her possessions.

"No, do not tell me. I know I did not do anything else to make you despise me. So please don't tell me what it was. Whatever it was, I did not do it and I might feel hurt if I knew that you suspected me of anything very bad."

"Very well, little roommate. We'll never talk about the matter. We'll clean off our slates and make them clean for the next lesson," said Helen. "That is what Miss Mary used to tell us when we went to primary grade."

"I always liked to hear you say 'little roommate.' Next year, Helen, you will not be here to say it. I wonder who will call me that." The tears were near Hester's eyes, but she forced them back and smiled.

"Perhaps, someone nicer than I and someone you will love better."

"That will never be. It couldn't be. But you'll come back to visit?"

"I do not think it will be possible. Father says I may go to an eastern college. That will take me far from here. I do not wish to go four years. I intend taking special work; for I mean to be a settlement worker."

Hester nodded. Just then she could not have said a word if her life had depended upon it. She thought that Helen's giving up a life of ease and luxury to work among the people of the slums, was a glorious thing; although she herself could not have done such a thing and had no desires in that direction.

"It will be lovely, Helen," she said at last. "Perhaps when you are working somewhere I shall come to visit you."

"Perhaps you may be working with me. Who knows?"

"I know I shall never be that kind of a worker. I intend to be a novelist. Perhaps, I shall find a great deal of material when I come down to visit you. I think being a great novelist would be glorious."

"Yes, if one could be great and could write life as it is and make people better by the writing."

"That is the kind I intend being," said Hester with conviction, and yet not conceit. "I shall be a great one or none at all. I never should like mere commonplace writing. I should like to imagine; to look at people and describe them as they were, and to see even their thoughts."

Helen laughed. Hester had already won a reputation in character-description. She had the faculty of describing her friends in a few pertinent words which meant as much as an entire paragraph from some people.

"I think your character-drawing will be excellent," said Helen. "You have a way with you, you know."

"Do you really think so? Aunt Debby says I am critical, but I do not mean to be that. People just naturally make me think of different things. I see a likeness. I cannot help it that it is there. Aunt Debby was once quite indignant when I was telling her about the different girls at school. I said Josephine made me think of soft-A sugar. Aunt Debby did not like it. But that is what she made me think of. I couldn't help it."

Hester was quite serious. Although the remark concerning Josephine was her own, she did not fully appreciate her own wit in the application.

Hester arose slowly. "That closet is cleared, thank goodness. I'll see to the trifles on the dressing-table. I'd rather pack big things than such trifles as hairpins, handkerchiefs, and stockings."

"I am ready to put mine in the trunk," said Helen. As she spoke, she drew the trunk from against the wall and lifted out the tray. She gave an exclamation as her eyes fell on a quantity of lawn and lace.

"I've hunted everywhere for those waists," she said. "I went to the laundry several times to ask Mrs. Pellesee if they had been mislaid. I was confident that they had not come back from the laundry."

She made a dive into the depths of the trunk and brought forth the shirtwaists.

"I remember now when I put them there. When I got my new one-piece suit to wear to dinner, I put these away. It was the night I lost my pin."

"Yes," said Hester without turning her head. Her mind was upon putting the contents of her dressing-table in order. She scarcely heard what Helen was saying.

Helen gave a second exclamation as her hands seized the fluff of lace about one waist; for the pin which she had missed months before was fastened to the lace.

"I found my pin!" she exclaimed. "I am glad—so glad! Look, Hester!"

Hester gave a quick indifferent glance toward Helen's upraised hand in which this stone glittered like a star.

"I'm glad," she said. "I thought it was very strange what became of it. I couldn't understand how it would disappear from the room. I have a pin something like that—but mine is just a cheap imitation. Aunt Debby says it is the kind one buys at a five-and-ten-cent store."

For a moment, Helen stood silent. She was abashed and ashamed of the suspicion which she had long held in her mind. She had done wrong; but on the other hand, she had done what she could to make matters right. It pleased her even now to know that she had asked Hester's forgiveness and had believed in her, before the proofs of her innocence came to hand. It is a worthless sort of faith and a poor friendship which needs evidence at hand. Faith is faith only when it believes without proof, or against proof. These thoughts came to Helen while she stood with the pin in her hand. Then she crossed to where Hester stood and laying her hand on Hester's shoulder, said, "Little roommate, to-night will be our last night together in school. Will you try to think with kindness of the roommate who was unjust to you? You have taught me one great big lesson, Hester, and that is that one cannot even believe her eyes. Will you forget all the unpleasant part of the year, and remember only that I really loved you with it all?"

"That will be easy. It will be but thinking kindly of myself. For every one says that you are my counterpart."

"A poor imitation, I am afraid. If I predict rightly the years will prove me but the reflection of a great and a brighter body. You'll be the sun, Hester. The best I'll ever be is a pale little moon." She bent to kiss Hester's lips. With that caress all the suspicion and doubt vanished and Hester Alden's year at school had closed.

THE END

DOROTHY BROWN

By NINA RHOADES

Illustrated by Elizabeth Withington Large 12mo Cloth $1.50

This is considerably longer than the other books by this favorite writer, and with a more elaborate plot, but it has the same winsome quality throughout. It introduces the heroine in New York as a little girl of eight, but soon passes over six years and finds her at a select family boarding school in Connecticut. An important part of the story also takes place at the Profile House in the White Mountains. The charm of school-girl friendship is finely brought out, and the kindness of heart, good sense and good taste which find constant expression in the books by Miss Rhoades do not lack for characters to show these best of qualities by their lives. Other less admirable persons of course appear to furnish the alluring mystery, which is not all cleared up until the very last.

MARION'S VACATION

By NINA RHOADES

Illustrated by Bertha G. Davidson 12mo Cloth $1.25