When Miss Wharton sent Jean Brent and Grace Harlowe from her office with the threat of dismissal hanging over them she fully intended to keep her word. From the moment she had first beheld Grace Harlowe she had conceived for her a rooted dislike such as only persons of strong prejudices can entertain. Her whole life had been lived narrowly, and with repression, therefore she was not in sympathy with youth or its enthusiasm. According to her belief no young woman of Grace’s age and appearance was competent to assume the responsibility of managing an establishment like Harlowe House. She had again delivered this opinion most forcefully in Miss Wilder’s presence after Grace had left the office on the afternoon of their first meeting, and Miss Wilder’s earnest assurances to the contrary served only to deepen Miss Wharton’s disapproval of the bright-faced, clear-eyed girl whose quiet self-possession indicated a capability of managing her own affairs that was a distinct affront to the woman who hoped to discover in her such faults as would triumphantly bear out her unkind criticism.

Miss Wharton had held the position of dean in an unimportant western college, and it was at the solicitation of a cousin, a member of the Board of Trustees, that she had applied for the office of dean at Overton, and had been appointed to it with the distinct understanding that it was to be for the present college year only. Should Miss Wilder be unable to resume her duties the following October, Miss Wharton would then be reappointed for the entire year. The importance of being the dean of Overton College, coupled with the generous salary attached to the office, were the motives which caused Miss Wharton to resign her more humble position, assured as it was, for an indefinite period of years, for the one of greater glory but uncertain length.

Possessed of a hard, unsympathetic nature, she secretly cherished the hope that Miss Wilder would not return to Overton the following year. She also resolved to prove her own worth above that of the kindly, efficient dean whom the Overton girls idolized, and began her campaign by criticizing and finding fault with Miss Wilder’s methods whenever the slightest opportunity presented itself. At first her unfair tactics bade fair to meet with success. The various members of the Board, and even Dr. Morton, wondered vaguely if, after all, too much confidence had been reposed in Miss Wilder.

Wholly intent on establishing herself as a fixture at Overton College, Miss Wharton allowed the matter concerning Jean Brent and Grace to rest while she attended to what she considered vastly more important affairs. The thought that she was keeping both young women in the most cruel suspense did not trouble her in the least. On the contrary she decided that they deserved to be kept in a state of uncertainty as to what she intended to do with them, and deliberately put over their case until such time as suited her convenience.

Both Jean and Grace went about, however, with the feeling that a sword was suspended over their heads and likely to descend at any moment. Grace expected, daily, to be summoned to Miss Wharton’s office, there to refuse to divulge Jean Brent’s secret and then ask the pertinent question, “Do you intend to lay this matter before the Board?” If she received an affirmative answer, then she planned to return to Harlowe House, write her formal resignation as manager of it and mail it to President Morton. But day followed day, and week followed week, and still the dread summons did not come. Grace discussed frequently the possible cause of Miss Wharton’s negligence in the matter with Emma, her one confidante. Emma was of the opinion that, in trying to fill Miss Wilder’s position, Miss Wharton had her hands full. Although Emma was apt to clothe the most serious happenings in the cloak of humor, she was a shrewd judge of human nature.

“Just let me tell you one thing, Gracious,” she remarked one blustering March evening as the two young women fought their way across the campus against a howling wind. They were returning from an evening spent with Kathleen West and Patience Eliot. “Miss Wharton is no more fitted for the position of dean at Overton College than I am for the presidency of the United States. She may have been successful in some little, out-of-the-way academy in a jerkwater town, but she’s sadly out of place here. She has about as much tact as a rhinoceros, and possesses the Æsthetic perceptions of a coal shoveler. I’m just waiting for these simple truths to dawn upon the intellects of our august Board. I understand that cadaverous-looking man with the wall eyes and the spade-shaped, beard, who walks about as though he cherished a grudge against the human race, and rejoices in the euphonious name of Darius Dutton, is responsible for this crime against Overton. He recommended her appointment to the Board. It seems that he is Miss Wharton’s cousin. Thank goodness he isn’t mine, or Miss Wharton either.”

Grace laughed at Emma’s sweeping denunciation of Miss Wharton and the offending Daniel Dutton. Then her face grew sober. “You mustn’t allow my grievances to imbitter you, Emma, toward any member of the Board.”

“Oh, my only grudge against Darius D. so far is his having such detestable relatives and foisting them upon an innocent, trusting college,” retorted Emma with spirit, “but my grudge against Miss Wharton is a very different matter. It’s an active, lively grudge. I’d like to write to Miss Wilder and Mrs. Gray, and interview Dr. Morton, and then see what happened. It would not be Grace Harlowe who resigned; but it might be a certain hateful person whose name begins with W. I won’t say her name outright. Possibly you’ll be able to guess it.”

Grace’s hand found Emma’s in the dark as they came to the steps of Harlowe House. The two girls paused for an instant. Their hands clung loyally. “Remember, Emma, you’ve promised to let me have my own way in this,” reminded Grace wistfully.

“I’ll keep my promise,” answered Emma, but her voice sounded husky.

“I know,” continued Grace, “that Miss Wharton’s attitude toward me is one of personal prejudice. From the moment she saw me she disliked me. I know of only one other similar case. When Anne Pierson and I were freshmen in Oakdale High School we recited algebra to a teacher named Miss Leece, who behaved toward Anne in precisely the same way that Miss Wharton has behaved toward me, simply because she disliked her. But come on, old comrade, we mustn’t stand out here all night with the wind howling in our ears. Let us try and forget our troubles. What is to be, will be. I am nothing, if not a fatalist.” Grace forced herself to smile with her usual brightness, and the two girls entered the house arm in arm, each endeavoring, for the sake of the other to stifle her unhappiness.

It was not yet ten o’clock and the lights were still burning in the living room. Gathered about the library table were six girls, deep in conversation. One of them glanced toward the hall at the sound of the opening door.

“Oh, Miss Harlowe,” she called, “You are the very person we have been wishing for.” It was Cecil Ferris who spoke. Nettie Weyburn, Louise Sampson, Mary Reynolds, Evelyn Ward and Hilda Moore made up the rest of the sextette. “We are wondering if it wouldn’t be a good plan to give our grand revue directly after the Easter vacation. It will be our last entertainment this year, because after Easter the weather begins to grow warm and the girls like to be outdoors. If you would help us plan it, then those of us who live here, and are going to take part in it, can be studying and rehearsing during the vacation. Of course, Evelyn won’t be with us, but she will help us before she goes to New York. When she comes back she can give us the finishing touches. Here is the programme as far as we have planned it. We are awfully short of features.”

Cecil handed Grace a sheet of paper on which were jotted several items. There was a sketch written by Mary Reynolds, “The Freshman on the Top Floor,” a pathetic little story of a lonely freshman. Gertrude Earle, a demure, dreamy-eyed girl, the daughter of a musician, was down for a piano solo. There was to be a sextette, a chorus and a troupe of dancing girls. Kathleen West had written a clever little playlet “In the Days of Shakespeare,” and Hilda Moore, who could do all sorts of queer folk dances, was to busy her light feet in a series of quick change costume dances, while Amy Devery was to give an imitation of a funny motion-picture comedian who had made the whole country laugh at his antics.

“How would you like some imitations and baby songs?” asked Grace, forgetting for the moment the shadow that hung over her. “I have two friends who would be delighted to help you.”

“How lovely!” cried Louise Sampson. “Now if only we had some one who could sing serious songs exceptionally well.”

“Miss Brent has a wonderful voice,” said Evelyn rather reluctantly.

“Then we must ask her to sing,” decided Louise. “You ask her to-night, Evelyn.”

But Evelyn shook her head. “I’d rather you would ask her, Louise. Won’t you, please?”

“All right, I will,” said Louise good-naturedly, who had no idea of the strained relations existing between the two girls, and consequently thought nothing of Evelyn’s request.

“Much as I regret tearing myself away from this representative company of beauty and brains, I have themes that cry out to be corrected,” declared Emma Dean, who had been listening in interested silence to the plans for the coming revue.

“You can’t hear them cry out clear down here, can you?” asked Mary Reynolds flippantly.

A general giggle went the round of the sextette.

“Not with my everyday ordinary ears, my child,” answered Emma, quite undisturbed. “It is that inner voice of duty that is making all the commotion. I would much rather bask in the light of your collected countenances than listen to those frenzied shrieks. But what of my trusting classes, who delight in writing themes and passing them on to me to be corrected?”

“Oh, yes; we all delight in writing themes,” jeered Nettie Weyburn, to whom theme writing was an irksome task. “My inner voice of duty is screaming at me this very minute to go and write one, but I’m so deaf I can’t hear it.”

“If you can’t hear it, how do you know it is screaming?” questioned Emma very solemnly.

“My intuition tells me,” retorted Nettie with triumphant promptness.

“Then I wish all my pupils in English had such marvelous intuitions,” sighed Emma.

“My inner voice of duty is wailing at me to go upstairs and finish my letter to my mother,” interposed Grace, rising. Her face had regained its usual brightness. She could not be sad in the presence of these light-hearted, capable girls, whose sturdy efforts to help themselves made them all so inexpressibly dear to her. She would help them all she could with their entertainment. She would write Arline and Elfreda to come to Overton for a few days and take part in the revue.

It was not until she had finished her letter to her mother and begun one to Elfreda that the sinister recollection again darkened her thoughts. She was living in the shadow of dismissal. Would it be wise to invite Arline and Elfreda to Harlowe House for a visit while she was so uncertain of what the immediate future held in store for her? If she tendered her resignation she intended it should take effect without delay. Once she had surrendered her precious charge she could not and would not remain at Harlowe House. Still she had promised her girls that she would help them. She had volunteered Arline’s and Elfreda’s services, knowing they would willingly leave their own affairs to journey back to Overton.

Grace laid down her pen. Resting her elbows on the table she cradled her chin in her hands, her vivid, changeful face overcast with moody thought. At last she raised her head with the air of one who has come to a decision, and, picking up her pen, went on with her letter to J. Elfreda Briggs. If worse came to worst and she resigned before the girls’ entertainment she would courageously put aside her own feelings and remain, at least, until afterward. It should be her last act of devotion to Harlowe House and her work.