“There!” exclaimed Louise Sampson as she succeeded in firmly establishing at the top of the bulletin board a large white card, bearing the significant legend, “Regular Meeting of the Harlowe House Club. 8.00 P.M. Living Room. Full Attendance, Please.”

A small, fair-haired girl came down the stairs and joined Louise at the bulletin-board. She read the notice aloud. “Oh, dear, I’ve an engagement with a girl at Wayne Hall to-night. I don’t care to miss the meeting, and I don’t like to break my engagement,” she mourned.

“I wish you would break it just this once, Hilda,” said Louise seriously. “I am anxious that every member of the club shall attend the meeting to-night. I have something of importance to say to the girls.”

Hilda Moore opened her blue eyes very wide. “What are you going to say, Louise? Tell me, please. You see I made this engagement over a week ago. If you’d just tell me now what it’s all about, I wouldn’t really need to come to the club meeting. I could——”

“Keep your engagement,” finished Louise, her eyes twinkling. “Really, Hilda Moore, if you knew a tidal wave, or a cyclone or any other calamity was due to demolish Overton I believe you’d go on making engagements in the face of it.”

Hilda giggled good-naturedly. She was a pretty, sunshiny girl of a pure blonde type, and had been extremely popular during her freshman year at Overton, not only with her fellow companions at Harlowe House, but as a member of the freshman class as well. In spite of her round baby face, and a carefree, little-girl manner that went with it, she was a capable business woman and earned her college fees as stenographer to the dean. The daughter of parents who were not able to send her to college, she had not only prepared for college during her high-school days, but had taken the business course included in the curriculum of the high school which she attended, and had thus fitted herself to earn her way in the Land of College.

Hilda’s unfailing good nature was appreciated to the extent of making her a welcome guest at the informal gatherings which were forever being held in the various students’ rooms after recitations were over for the day. The consequence was that, as her studies and clerical duties left her limited time for amusements, her precious recreation moments were invariably promised to her friends many days in advance. In fact Hilda Moore’s “engagements” had grown to be a standing joke among them.

“Promise me on your bright new sophomore honor that you’ll offer your polite regrets to the other half of that important engagement of yours and attend my meeting,” appealed Louise.

“Well,” Hilda looked concerned, “I could see the girl this afternoon and change the date.” She smiled engagingly at Louise.

“Of course you will,” Louise agreed, answering the smile. “You see I know you, Hilda Moore.”

“But I wouldn’t do it for any one else except Miss Harlowe or Miss Dean,” was Hilda’s positive assertion. “Mercy, look at the time! I’ll have to run for it if I expect to reach the office before Miss Wilder. Good-bye.”

Hilda was gone like a flash, leaving Louise to stare contemplatively at the notice. As the president for the year of the Harlowe House Club she felt deeply her responsibility. She had been unanimously elected at the club’s first meeting, greatly to her surprise.

Louise Sampson was perhaps better fitted to be president of the Harlowe House Club than any other member of that interesting household. Emma and Grace had agreed upon the point when, before the election, the former’s name had been mentioned as a probable candidate. This thought sprang again to Grace’s mind as she came from her office and saw Louise still standing before the bulletin board, apparently deep in thought. She turned at the sound of Grace’s step.

“Oh, Miss Harlowe!” she exclaimed. “I do hope our meeting to-night will be a success. Surely some one will have a real live idea for the club to act upon.”

“Thirty-four heads are better than one,” smiled Grace. “There is inspiration in numbers.”

“We did wonderfully well with the caramels last year, and this year I believe they will be more popular than ever. We made twice as many as usual last Saturday, and sold them all. We were obliged to disappoint quite a number of girls, too. Our little bank account is growing slowly but surely. Still there are certainly other things we can do to earn money, collectively and individually. Really I mustn’t get started on the subject. It is time I went to my chemistry recitation. You’ll be at the meeting to-night, won’t you, Miss Harlowe? We couldn’t get along without you.”

A faint flush rose to Grace’s cheeks at Louise’s parting remark. How wonderful it was to feel that one was really useful. Yes; the thirty-four girls under her care really needed her. They needed her far more than did Tom Gray. Grace frowned a trifle impatiently. She had not intended to allow herself to think of Tom, yet there was something in the expression of Louise Sampson’s gray eyes that reminded her of him. Resolving to put him completely out of her mind, Grace went into the kitchen to consult with the cook concerning the day’s marketing. The postman’s ring, however, caused her to hurry back to her office where the maid was just depositing her morning mail on the slide of her desk.

Her letters were from Anne, Elfreda and her mother, and they filled her with unalloyed pleasure. Her mother’s unselfish words, “I hope my little girl is finding all the happiness life has to offer in her work,” thrilled her. How different was her mother’s attitude from that of Tom Gray. Surely no one could miss her as her mother missed her, yet she had given her up without a murmur, while Tom had protested bitterly against her beloved work and prophesied that some day she would realize that work didn’t mean everything in life.

All that day the inspiring effect of her mother’s letter remained with Grace. Her already deep interest in her house and her charges received new impetus, and when evening came, she felt, as she entered the big living room where the thirty-four girls were assembled, that she would willingly do anything that lay within her power to forward the prosperity and success of Harlowe House.

After the usual preliminaries, Louise Sampson addressed the meeting in her bright direct fashion. “Ever since we came back to Harlowe House this year I’ve felt that we ought to do something to increase our treasury money. If the club had enough money of its own, then the Harlowe House girls wouldn’t need to borrow of Semper Fidelis. That would leave the Semper Fidelis fund free for other girls who don’t live here and who need financial help. Of course we couldn’t do very much at first, but if we could get up some kind of play or entertainment that the whole college would be anxious to come to see, as they once did a bazaar that the Semper Fidelis Club gave, the money we would realize from it would be a fine start for us. Now I’m going to leave the subject open to informal discussion. Won’t some one of you please express an opinion?”

“Don’t you believe that some of the students might say we were selfish to try to make money for our own house instead of for the college? Semper Fidelis was organized for the benefit of the whole college, but this is different,” remarked Cecil Ferris.

A blank silence followed Cecil’s objection. What she had just said was, in a measure, true.

Louise Sampson looked appealingly at Grace. She had been so sure that her plan of conducting some special entertainment on a large scale would meet with approval. Cecil’s view of the matter had never occurred to her.

“I am afraid that Miss Ferris is right,” Grace said slowly. “Much as I should like to see the Harlowe House Club in a position to take care of its members’ wants I am afraid we might be criticized as selfish if we undertook to give a bazaar.”

“Why couldn’t we give one entertainment a month?” asked Mary Reynolds eagerly. “I am sure President Morton would let us have Greek Hall. We could give different kinds of entertainments. One month we could give a Shakespearean play and the next a Greek tragedy; then we could act a scenario, or have a musical revue or whatever we liked. We could make posters to advertise each one and state frankly on them that the proceeds were to go to the Harlowe House Club Reserve Fund. We wouldn’t ask any one for anything. We wouldn’t even ask them to come. We’d just have the tickets on sale as they do at a theatre. If the girls liked the first show, they’d come to the next one. We’d ask some of the popular girls of the college who do stunts to take part, and feature them. I think we’d have a standing-room-only audience every time.”

Mary paused for breath after this long speech. The club, to a member, had eyed her with growing interest as she talked.

“I think that’s a splendid plan,” agreed Evelyn Ward. “I’m willing to do all I can toward it. I’ve had only a little stage experience, but I’d love to help coach the actors for their parts.”

For the next half hour the plan for increasing the club’s treasury was eagerly discussed. A play committee, consisting of Mary Reynolds, Evelyn Ward, Nettie Weyburn and Ethel Hilton, a tall, dark-haired girl, noted for making brilliant recitations, was chosen.

“Has any one else a suggestion?” asked Louise Sampson, when the first excitement regarding the new project had in a measure subsided.

“Why couldn’t we have a Service Bureau?” asked Nettie Weyburn. “I mean we could post notices that any one who wishes a certain kind of work done, such as mending, sewing or tutoring, could apply to our bureau. Every one knows that the students of Harlowe House are self-supporting. We wouldn’t be here if we weren’t. Some of us have a very hard time earning our college fees. Some of us have been obliged to borrow money, and comparatively few of us ever have pocket money. If the girls who don’t have to do things for themselves found that we could always be depended upon for services I imagine we would have all the work we could do.”

“Hurrah for Nettie!” exclaimed Cecil Ferris. “I think that’s a fine idea.”

“So do I,” echoed several voices.

“But we’d have to put some one in charge of the bureau, and no one of us could afford to spend much time looking after it,” reminded Louise.

“Oh, we could take turns,” was Nettie’s prompt reply. “Then, too, we could have certain hours for business, say from four o’clock until six on every week day, except Saturday and from two o’clock until five on Saturday afternoons.”

“But where would we receive the girls who came to see about having work done?” asked Alice Andrews, a business-like little person who roomed with Louise Sampson.

“I will see that the Service Bureau has a desk installed in one corner of the living room,” offered Grace, who had, up to this point, listened to the various girls’ remarks, a proud light in her eyes. She loved the sturdy self-reliance of the members of her household. “And there will also be times when I can do duty on the Bureau, too,” she added.

“No, Miss Harlowe, you mustn’t think of it,” said Louise Sampson. “You do altogether too much for us now.”

“I am here to take care of my household,” smiled Grace. “Besides, it will be a pleasure to help a club of girls who are so willing to help themselves.”

“Miss Harlowe is really and truly interested in the girls here, isn’t she?” Jean Brent commented to Evelyn Ward in an undertone. Having passed her examinations Jean was now a full-fledged freshman.

“Yes, indeed,” returned Evelyn, with emphasis. “She has done a great deal for me. More than I can ever hope to repay.”

“What—” began Jean. Then she suddenly stopped and bent forward in a listening attitude. The electric bell on the front door had just shrilled forth the announcement of a visitor. A moment and the maid had entered the room with, “A lady to see you, Miss Harlowe. I didn’t catch her name. It sounded like Brant.”

Jean Brent grew very white. Turning to Evelyn she said unsteadily, “I don’t feel well. I think I will go up stairs.” Without waiting for Evelyn to reply, she rose and almost ran out of the living room ahead of Grace. As she stepped into the hall she darted one lightning glance toward the visitor, then she stumbled up the stairs, shaking with relief. She had never before seen Grace’s caller.

“How do you feel?” was Evelyn’s first question as she entered their room fully two hours later. “You missed a spread. We had sandwiches and cake and hot chocolate.”

“I can’t help it,” muttered Jean uncivilly. Then she said apologetically, “I’m much better, thank you. Please forgive me for being so rude.”

While in the next room Grace was saying to Emma, who, owing to an engagement, had not attended the meeting, “Really, Emma, the name ‘Riddle’ certainly applies to Miss Brent. She came to the meeting with the others, and when it was only half over she bolted from the living room and upstairs as though she were pursued by savages. I wouldn’t have noticed her, perhaps, but I had been called to the door. Mrs. Brant came to see me about my sewing. Miss Brent hurried out of the living room ahead of me. I saw her give Mrs. Brant the strangest look, then up the stairs she ran as fast as she could go.”

“Grace,” Emma looked at her friend in a startled way. “You don’t suppose Miss Brent has run away from home do you? The names Brant and Brent sound alike. She may have thought that some member of her family had followed her here.”

It was Grace’s turn to look startled. “I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “I hope not. I should not like to harbor a runaway unless I knew the circumstances warranted it, as was the case with Mary Reynolds. I didn’t think of Miss Brent’s secret as being of that nature. Surely Miss Lipton would not countenance a runaway. Still I don’t wish to try to force this girl’s confidence. I prefer to let matters stand as they are, for the present, at least. I’ve promised to respect her secret, whatever it may be, and I am going to do so.”

Emma shook her head disapprovingly.

“I don’t like mysteries, Grace. When we talked Jean Brent over a few days ago I told you that I didn’t think it mattered if she choose to wrap herself in mystery. But I’ve changed my mind. I believe you owe it to yourself to insist on a complete explanation from her. Suppose later on you discovered that you had been deceived in her, that she was unworthy. Then, again, she might put you in a disagreeable position with President Morton or Miss Wilder. You remember the humiliation you endured at Evelyn’s hands. I, who know you so well, understand that your motive in trusting Miss Brent unquestioningly is above reproach. But others might not understand. If she proved untrustworthy, you would be censured far more than she.” Emma’s tones vibrated with earnestness.

Grace sat silent. She realized the truth of her friend’s words. Emma rarely spoke seriously. When she did so, it counted. Still, she had given her promise to this strange young girl, and she would keep her word. After all Jean Brent’s secret might be of no more importance than that of the average school girl.