Marjorie's friendship for Chrissie Lang at present flamed at red heat. Marjorie was prone to violent attachments, her temperament was excitable, and she was easily swayed by her emotions. She would take up new people with enthusiasm, though she was apt to drop them afterwards. Since her babyhood "Marjorie's latest idol" had been a byword in the family. She had worshipped by turns her kindergarten teacher, a little curly-headed boy whom she met at dancing-class, her gymnasium mistress, at least ten separate form-mates, the Girl Guides' captain, and a friend of Nora's. Her affection varied according to the responsiveness of the object, though in some cases she had even been ready to love without return. Chrissie, however, seemed ready to meet her half-way. She was enthusiastic and demonstrative and rather sentimental. To be sure, she gave Marjorie very little of her confidence; but the latter, who liked to talk herself and pour out her own ideas, did not trouble on that score, and was quite content to have found a sympathetic listener. The two girls were inseparable. They walked round the quadrangle arm in arm; they sat side by side in any class where liberty to choose places was allowed. They exchanged picture post cards, foreign stamps, and crests; they gave each other presents, and wrote sentimental little notes which they hid under one another's pillows.

The general opinion of the form was that Marjorie had "got it badly".

"Can't imagine what she sees in Chrissie Lang myself," sniffed Annie Turner. "She's not particularly interesting. Her nose is too big, and she can't say her r's properly."

"She's mean, too," added Francie Sheppard. "I'm collecting for the Seamen's Mission, and she wouldn't even give me a penny."

"She tried to truckle to Norty, too," put in Patricia Lennox. "She bought violets in Whitecliffe, and laid them on the desk in Norty's study, with a piece of cardboard tied to them with white ribbon, and 'With love from your devoted pupil Chrissie' written on it. Norty gave them back to her, though, and said she'd made it a rule to accept nothing from any girl, not even flowers."

"Good for Norty!"

"Oh, trust the Acid Drop not to lapse into anything sentimental! She's as hard as nails. The devoted-pupil dodge doesn't go down with her."

Marjorie had to run a considerable gauntlet of chaff from her schoolmates, but that did not trouble her in the least. A little opposition, indeed, added spice to the friendship. Her home letters were full of praise of her new idol."Chrissie is the most adorable girl you can imagine," she wrote to her mother. "We do everything together now. I can't tell you how glad I am she has come to school. I tell her all about Bevis and Leonard and Larry, and she is so interested and wants to know just where they are and what they are doing. She says it is because they are my brothers. Dona does not care for her very much, but that is because she is such great friends with Ailsa Donald. I took a snapshot of Chris yesterday, and she took one of me. I'll send them both to you as soon as we have developed and printed them. We don't get much time to do photography, because we're keen on acting this term, and I'm in the Charade Society. Chrissie has made me a handkerchief in open-hem stitch, and embroidered my name most beautifully on it. I wish I could sew as well as she does. I lost it in the hockey field, and did not find it for three days, and I dared not tell Chrissie all that time, for fear she might be offended. She's dreadfully sensitive. She says she has a highly nervous organism, and I think it's true."

It was about this time that it was rumoured in St. Elgiva's that Irene Andrews had started a secret society. What its name or object might be nobody knew, but its votaries posed considerably for the benefit of the rest of the hostel. They preserved an air of aloofness and dignity, as if concerned with weighty matters. It was evident that they had a password and a code of signals, and that they met in Irene's dormitory, with closed door and a scout to keep off intruders. When pressed to give at least a hint as to the nature of their proceedings, they replied that they would cheerfully face torture or the stake before consenting to reveal a single word. Now Dormitory No. 9 had never quite forgiven Irene for deserting in favour of No. 5 and Mavie Chapman. Its occupants discussed the matter as they went to bed.

"Renie's so fearfully important," complained Betty. "I asked her something this morning, and she said: 'Don't interrupt me, child,' as if she were the King busy on State affairs."

"She'll hardly look at us nowadays," agreed Sylvia plaintively.

"I'll tell you what," suggested Marjorie. "Let's get up a secret society of our own. It would take the wind out of Renie's sails tremendously to find that we had passwords and signals and all the rest of it. She'd be most fearfully annoyed."

"It's a good idea," assented Sylvia, "but what could we have a secret society about?"

"Well, why not have it a sort of patriotic one, to do all we can to help the war, knit socks for the soldiers, and that kind of thing?"

"We knit socks already," objected Betty.

"That doesn't matter, we must knit more, that's all. There must be heaps of things we can do for the war. Besides, it's the spirit of the thing that counts. We pledge ourselves to give our last drop of blood for our country. We've all of us got fathers and brothers who are fighting.""Chrissie hasn't anybody at the front," demurred Betty, rather spitefully.

"That's not Chrissie's fault. We're not all born with brothers. Because you're lucky enough to have an uncle who's an admiral, you needn't quite squash other people!"

"How you fly out! I was only mentioning a fact."

"Anybody with tact wouldn't have mentioned it."

"What shall we call the society?" asked Sylvia, bringing the disputants back to the original subject of the discussion.

"How would 'The Secret Society of Patriots' do?" suggested Chrissie.

"The very thing!" assented Marjorie warmly. "Trust Chrissie to hit on the right name. We'll let just a few into it—Patricia, perhaps, and Enid and Mollie, but nobody else. We must take an oath, and regard it as absolutely binding."

"Like the Freemasons," agreed Sylvia. "I believe they kill anybody who betrays them."

"We'll have an initiation ceremony," purred Marjorie, highly delighted with the new venture. "And of course we'll arrange a password and signals, and I don't see why we shouldn't have a cryptogram, and write each other notes. It would be ever so baffling for the rest to find letters lying about that they couldn't read. They'd be most indignant."

"Right you are! It'll be priceless! We'll do Irene this time!"The new society at once established itself upon lines of utmost secrecy. Its initiates found large satisfaction in playing it off against their rivals. Though they preserved its objects in a halo of mystery, they allowed just the initials of its name to leak out, so as to convince the hostel of its reality. Unfortunately they had not noticed that S.S.O.P. spells "sop", but the outside public eagerly seized at such an opportunity, and nicknamed them "the Milksops" on the spot. As they had expected, Irene and her satellites were highly affronted at an opposition society being started, and flung scorn at its members.

"We mustn't mind them," urged Marjorie patiently. "It's really a compliment to us that they're so annoyed. We'll just go on our own way and take no notice. I've invented a beautiful cryptogram. They'll never guess it without the key, if they try for a year."

The code of signals was easily mastered by the society, but they jibbed at the cryptogram.

"It's too difficult, and I really haven't the brains to learn it," said Betty decidedly.

"It's as bad as lessons," wailed Sylvia.

Even Chrissie objected to being obliged to translate notes written in cipher.

"It takes such a long time," she demurred.

"I thought you'd have done it," said Marjorie reproachfully. "I'm afraid you don't care for me as much as you did."

The main difficulty of the society was to find sufficient outlets for its activities. At present, knitting socks seemed the only form of aid which it was possible to render the soldiers. The members decided that they must work harder at this occupation and produce more pairs. Some of them smuggled their knitting into Preparation, with the result that their form work suffered. They bore loss of marks and Miss Duckworth's reproaches with the heroism of martyrs to a cause.

"We couldn't tell her we were fulfilling vows," sighed Marjorie, "though I was rather tempted to ask her which was more important—my Euclid or the feet of some soldier at the front?"

"She wouldn't have understood."

"Well, no, I suppose not, unless we'd explained."

"Could we ask Norty to let us save our jam and send it to the soldiers?"

Marjorie shook her head.

"We couldn't get it out to the front, and they've heaps of it at the Red Cross Hospital—at least, Elaine says so, and she helps in the pantry at present."

"We might sell our hair for the benefit of the Belgians," remarked Betty, gazing thoughtfully at Marjorie's long plait and Sylvia's silken curls.

"Oh, I dare say, when your own's short!" responded Sylvia indignantly. "I might as well suggest selling our ponies, because you've got one and I haven't."

"If I wrote a patriotic poem, I wonder how much it would cost to get it printed?" asked Enid. "I'd make all the girls in our form buy copies.""We might get up a concert."

"But wouldn't that give away our secret?"

With the enthusiasm of the newly-formed society still hot upon her, Marjorie started for her fortnightly exeat at her aunt's. She felt that the atmosphere of The Tamarisks would be stimulating. Everybody connected with that establishment was doing something for the war. Uncle Andrew was on a military tribunal, Aunt Ellinor presided over numerous committees to send parcels to prisoners, or to aid soldiers' orphans. Elaine's life centred round the Red Cross Hospital, and Norman and Wilfred were at the front. She found her aunt, with the table spread over with papers, busily scribbling letters.

"I'm on a new committee," she explained, after greeting her niece. "I have to find people who'll undertake to write to lonely soldiers. Some of our poor fellows never have a letter, and the chaplains say it's most pathetic to see how wistful they look when the mails come in and there's nothing for them. I think it's just too touching for words. Suppose Norman and Wilfred were never remembered. Did you say, Elaine, that Mrs. Wilkins has promised to take Private Dudley? That's right! And Mrs. Hopwood will take Private Roberts? It's very kind of her, when she's so busy already. We haven't anybody yet for Private Hargreaves. I must find him a correspondent somehow. What is it, Dona dear? You want me to look at your photos? Most certainly!"

Aunt Ellinor—kind, busy, and impulsive, and always anxious to entertain the girls when they came for their fortnightly visit—pushed aside her papers and immediately gave her whole attention to the snapshots which Dona showed her.

"I took them with the camera you gave me at Christmas," explained her niece. "Miss Jones says it must be a very good lens, because they've come out so well. Isn't this one of Marjorie topping?"

"It's nice, only it makes her look too old," commented Elaine. "You can't see her plait, and she might be quite grown-up. Have you a book to paste your photos in?"

"Not yet. I must put that down in my birthday list."

"I believe I have one upstairs that I can give you. It's somewhere in my cupboard. I'll go and look for it."

"Oh, let me come with you!" chirruped Dona, running after her cousin.

Marjorie stayed in the dining-room, because Aunt Ellinor had just handed her Norman's last letter, and she wanted to read it. She was only half-way through the first page when a maid announced a visitor, and her aunt rose and went to the drawing-room. Norman's news from the front was very interesting. She devoured it eagerly. As a P.S. he added: "Write as often as you can. You don't know what letters mean to us out here."

Marjorie folded the thin foreign sheets and put them back in their envelope. If Norman, who was kept well supplied with home news, longed for letters, what must be the case of those lonely soldiers who had not a friend to use pen and paper on their behalf? Surely it would be a kind and patriotic act to write to one of them? Marjorie's impulsive temperament snatched eagerly at the idea.

"The very sort of thing I've been yearning to do," she decided. "Why, that's what our S.S.O.P. membership is for. Auntie said she hadn't found a correspondent for Private Hargreaves. I'll send him a letter myself. It's dreadful to think of him out in the trenches without a soul to take an interest in him, poor fellow!"

Without waiting to consult anybody, Marjorie borrowed her aunt's pen, took a sheet of foreign paper from the rack that stood on the table, and quite on the spur of the moment scribbled off the following epistle:—

It exactly filled up a sheet, and Marjorie folded it, put it in an envelope, and copied the address from the list which her aunt had left lying on the table. Seeing Dona's photos also spread out, she took the little snapshot of herself and enclosed it in the letter. She had a stamp of her own in her purse, which she affixed, then slipped the envelope in her pocket. She did not mention the matter to Aunt Ellinor or Elaine, because to do so would almost seem like betraying the S.S.O.P., whose patriotic principles were vowed to strictest secrecy. She considered it was a case of "doing good by stealth", and plumed herself on how she would score over the other girls when she reported such a very practical application of the aims of the society.

Her cousin returned with Dona in the course of a few minutes, and suggested taking the girls into Whitecliffe, where she wished to do some shopping. They all three started off at once. As they passed the pillar-box in the High Street, Marjorie managed to drop in her letter unobserved. It was an exhilarating feeling to know that it was really gone. They went to a cafÉ for tea, and as they sat looking at the Allies' flags, which draped the walls, and listening to the military marches played by a ladies' orchestra in khaki uniforms, patriotism seemed uppermost.

"It's grand to do anything for one's country!" sighed Marjorie.

"So it is," answered Elaine, pulling her knitting from her pocket and rapidly going on with a sock. "Those poor fellows in the trenches deserve everything we can send out to them—socks, toffee, cakes, cigarettes, scented soap, and other comforts."

"And letters," added Marjorie under her breath, to herself.

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