"The first thing I shall do this morning after breakfast is to unpack," announced Grace Harlowe with decision, as she gave her hair a last pat preparatory to going downstairs to breakfast. "Last year I was so excited over what studies I intended to take and meeting new girls that I unpacked by fits and starts. It was weeks before I knew where to find things. But I've reformed, now. I'm going to put every last article in place before I set foot outside Wayne Hall. Do you wish the chiffonier or the bureau this year, Anne, for your things?"

"The chiffonier, I think," replied Anne, after due reflection. "I haven't as much to stow away as you have. It will do nicely for me."

"There goes the breakfast bell!" exclaimed Grace. "Come along, Anne, I'm hungry. Besides, I'd like the same seat at the table that I had last year."

Outside their door they were joined by Miriam and Elfreda, and the four friends stopped to talk before going downstairs.

"Were you haunted by nightmares in which glowering Anarchists pranced about?" asked Miriam, her eyes twinkling.

"No," replied Grace. "I slept too soundly even to dream."

"I dreamed that I went into the registrar's office to get my chapel card," began Elfreda impressively. "When she handed it to me it was three times larger than the others. On it in big red letters was printed, 'The Anarchist, Her Card.' I thought I handed it back to her and tried to explain that I wasn't an anarchist because I had neither bushy eyebrows nor a scowl. She just sat and glared at me, saying over and over, 'Look in your mirror, look in your mirror,' until I grew so angry I threw the card at her. It hit her and she fell backward. That frightened me, although it seemed so strange that a little, light piece of pasteboard could strike with such force. I tried to lift her, but she grew heavier and heavier. Then—"

"Yes, 'then,'" interposed Miriam, "I awoke in time to save myself from landing on the floor with a thump. Elfreda mistook me for the registrar. She was walking in her sleep."

"Of course I didn't mean to," apologized Elfreda, "You know that, don't you, Miriam? I can't help walking in my sleep. I've done it ever since I was a little girl."

"I forgive you, but you must promise not to dream," laughed Miriam. "Otherwise I am likely to find myself out the window or being dropped gently downstairs while you dream gaily on, regardless of what happens to your long-suffering roommate."

As they entered the dining room several girls already seated at the table welcomed them with joyful salutations. It was at least ten minutes before any one settled down to breakfast. Grace observed with secret relief that Miss Atkins was not at the table. The three freshmen who were to fill the last available places in Wayne Hall had not yet arrived. During breakfast a ceaseless stream of merry chatter flowed on. Everyone wished to tell her neighbor about her vacation, of what she intended to take during the fall term, or of how impossible it was to get hold of her trunk. Then there was the usual amount of wondering as to why the four freshmen hadn't appeared.

"One of them is here—that is, she's in the house," remarked Elfreda laconically.

"She is!" exclaimed Emma Dean, opening her eyes. "I didn't see her yesterday."

"You were consoling your homesick cousin, so how could you know what went on here?" reminded Grace. It had been decided that nothing should be said regarding the events of the previous day.

"So I was," said Emma. "She made me think of Longfellow's 'Rainy Day.' She looked so 'dark and dreary.'"

"What a unique comparison," chirped a wide-awake sophomore. "That will be so appropriate for the freshman grind book."

"It is our turn this year," exulted Elfreda. "I shall be on the lookout for good material, too. I know one freshman who will be a candidate for honors."

"Who?" inquired Emma Dean curiously.

Grace looked appealingly at the stout girl. A slight shake of the head reassured her. Elfreda abandoned her intention of mentioning names, and parried Emma's question so cleverly that the latter became interested in something else and forgot that she had asked it.

The instant she had finished her breakfast, Grace reannounced her intention of unpacking her trunk and rose to leave the table. Anne followed her, a curious smile on her face. The majority of the girls rose from the table at the same time, or immediately after, and went their various ways.

"Now," declared Grace energetically, "I am going to begin my labor."

"What did you say you were going to do?" asked Anne innocently.

"Unpack my trunk. I—why—I—haven't any trunk to unpack!" exclaimed Grace in bewilderment. Then catching sight of Anne's mirthful face, she sprang forward, caught Anne by the shoulders and shook her playfully. "Anne Pierson, you bad child, you heard me make all my plans for unpacking, yet you wouldn't remind me that my trunk was still at the station."

"I couldn't resist keeping still and allowing you to plan," confessed Anne. "What a joke that would be for the grind book!"

"Yes, wouldn't it though?" agreed Grace sarcastically. "However, we are not freshmen, and as my roommate I strictly forbid you to publish my stupidity broadcast. Having the unpacking fever in my veins, I shall console myself with unpacking my bag and suit case. I'll keep on wishing for my trunk and perhaps it will come." Grace walked to the window. She leaned out, peering anxiously down the road. Then, with a cry of delight, she exclaimed: "Come here, Anne."

Anne walked obediently to the window.

"'Tell me, Sister Anne, do you see anything?'" quoted Grace.

"You are saved, Fatima," returned Anne dramatically. "It is an express wagon."

Grace darted out of her door and down the stairs, meeting the expressman on the veranda, her trunk on his shoulder. Anne, having notified Elfreda and Miriam that the trunks had arrived, went downstairs to look after hers.

"Now I can carry out my plan, after all," declared Grace, with great satisfaction. "'He who laughs last, laughs best,' you know," she added slyly.

"Before unpacking, first find your trunk," retorted Anne.

"Thank goodness, we don't have to think about entrance examinations this year," said Grace, as she knelt before her trunk, fitting the key to the lock.

"Yes, it does make considerable difference," returned Anne. "We shall have more time to ourselves. Besides, we won't have to worry our heads off the first week about whether we survived or perished."

The sound of an automobile horn caused Grace to run to the window. "It's the bus!" she cried. "Three strange girls are getting out of it. Evidently our freshmen have arrived. That tall girl looks interesting. One of them is as stout as Elfreda. The little girl is cunning. I think I like her the best of the three. Oh dear!" she exclaimed ruefully, hastily drawing back from the window, "she looked straight up and saw me standing here. What will she think of me?"

"You shouldn't be so curious," teased Anne.

"I know it," admitted Grace. "I'm not over curious as a rule. I hope the tall girl is to room with the Anarchist. She looks capable of keeping her in order."

"That task will, no doubt, be handed over to you," said Anne, who had been making rapid progress in unpacking, while Grace had been occupied in looking over the newcomers. "You'd better get your unpacking done, so that you'll be ready for it—the task, I mean."

Grace sat down before her trunk with a little impatient sigh. For the space of an hour the two girls worked rapidly, almost in silence. Both trunks had been emptied and the greater part of their contents stored away when the sound of an angry, protesting voice outside the door caused them to look at each other wonderingly.

"What can have happened?" asked Anne.

Even as Anne spoke a never-to-be-forgotten voice said impressively, "What you prefer is immaterial to me, I prefer to room alone." The emphatic closing of a door followed. There was a sound of hurrying footsteps on the stairs, then all was still.