“Well, of all things!” Marjorie could not get over her undiluted amazement. For a second it struck her that she might again be the victim of a hoax. Perhaps an unkindly-minded person wished her to essay a call on Miss Susanna, thinking she might receive a sound snubbing. She shook her head at this canny suspicion. The phrasing was unmistakably Miss Susanna’s. She doubted also whether anyone had seen her that day with the old lady. Only a few cars had passed them before they had turned into the private road. These had contained persons not from the college. Outside the Lookouts, only Katherine, Leila and Vera knew of her encounter with Miss Susanna. She had not thought of keeping it a secret. She now made mental note to tell the girls not to mention it to anyone.

This resolve brought with it the annoying cogitation that the girls would wonder why she suddenly wished the matter kept secret. Nor could she explain to them without violating Miss Hamilton’s request. She could readily understand the latter’s point of view. Miss Susanna could not be blamed for taking it. Marjorie could only wish the old lady knew how honorable and discreet her chums were. She decided she would endeavor to make her hostess acquainted with that truth during her call.

She came to the conclusion that she could not pledge her close friends to secrecy regarding her recent adventure until after she had been to Hamilton Arms and talked with its eccentric owner. Miss Susanna would no doubt be displeased to learn that she had already mentioned their meeting to others. She would have to be told of it, nevertheless.

Marjorie’s next problem was to slip quietly away on Thursday afternoon without saying where she was going. That would not be difficult, provided none of the Lookouts happened to desire her company on some particular jaunt or merry-making. An indefinite refusal on her part would bring down on her a volley of mischievous questions.

“I’ll have to keep clear of the girls on Thursday,” she ruminated, with a half vexed smile. “I’ll have to put on the gown I’m going to wear to tea in the morning and wear it all day so as not to arouse their curiosity. That’s a nuisance. I’d like to wear one of my best frocks and I can’t on account of chemistry. I’ll wear that organdie frock Jerry likes so much; the one with the yellow rosebud in it. It is not fussy. If it is cold or rainy I can wear a long coat over it. I hope it’s a nice day. I can wear my picture hat. It goes so well with that gown. I can slip it out of the Hall without them noticing if I swing it on my arm. I hope to goodness I don’t ruin my organdie during chemistry. I feel like a conspirator.”

Marjorie chuckled faintly as she rose from her chair, letter in hand. She tucked the letter away in the top drawer of her chiffonier with the optimistic opinion that it would not be very long before she could frankly tell her chums of its contents.

Fortune favored her on Thursday. She awoke with a stream of brilliant sunshine in her face. She rejoiced that the day was fair and hoped Miss Susanna would suggest a walk about the grounds. Then she remembered the request the latter had made, and smiled at her own stupidity. A walk about the grounds would probably be the last thing Miss Susanna would suggest.

As it happened, Jerry had made an engagement to go to Hamilton with Helen. Ronny had a theme in French to write, which she said would take her spare time both in the afternoon and evening. Lucy and Katherine would be in the Biological Laboratory until dinner time, and Leila and Vera were invited to a tea given by a senior to ten of her class-mates. These were the only ones to be directly interested in her movements. To Jerry’s invitation, “Want to go to town with Helen and I this afternoon?” she had replied, “No, Jeremiah,” in as casual a tone as she could command, and that had ended the matter.

Marjorie was doubly careful in the Chemical Laboratory that afternoon and walked from it this time with no disfiguring stains on her dainty organdie frock. The letter had named the hour for her visit as five o’clock. This gave her ample time to return to the Hall, re-coif her curly hair and add a pretty satin sash of wide pale yellow ribbon to her costume. The absence of Jerry was, for once, welcome. She had a free hand to put the finishing touches to her toilet. It appealed to a certain sense of dignity, latent within her, to be able to quietly adjust her hat before the mirror and walk openly out of Wayland Hall. Marjorie inwardly hated anything connected with secrecy, yet it seemed to her she was always becoming involved in something which demanded it.

When finally she emerged from the Hall, she did not follow the main drive but cut across the campus, making for the western entrance. Reaching the highway, she kept a sharp lookout for passing automobiles. She laughed to herself as she thought of how disconcerting it would be after all her pains to run squarely into Jerry and Helen. The latter had just been the lucky recipient of a limousine, long promised her by her father, and she and Jerry were trying it out that afternoon.

It was ten minutes to five when, without having met anyone save two or three campus acquaintances, Marjorie walked sedately between the high, ornamental gate posts of Hamilton Arms, and on up the drive to the house. She compared her present approach to that of last May Day evening, when she had stolen like a shadow to the veranda to hang the May basket. It did not seem quite real to her that now she was actually coming to Hamilton Arms as an invited guest.

The knocker was no easier to pull than it had been on that night. She waited, feeling as though she were about to leave the college world behind and enter one rich in the romance of Colonial days. Then the door opened slowly and a dignified old man with thick, snow-white hair and a smooth-shaven face stood regarding her solemnly.

“You are Marjorie Dean?” he interrogated in deep, but very gentle tones. This before she had time to ask for Miss Susanna.

“Yes,” she affirmed, smiling in her unaffected, charming fashion. “I—Miss Hamilton expects me to tea.”

“I know.” He bowed with grave politeness. “Come in. Miss Susanna is in the library. I will show you the way.”

Marjorie drew a long breath of admiration as she was ushered into a wide almost square reception hall paneled in walnut. Her feet sank deep into the heavy brown velvet rug which completely covered the floor. Walking quickly behind her guide, she had no more than time for a passing glance at the massive elegance of the carved walnut furniture. She caught a fleeting glimpse of herself in the great square mirror of the hall rack and thought how very small and insignificant she appeared.

“How are you, Marjorie Dean?” Ushered into the library by the stately old man, the last of the Hamiltons now came forward to greet her.

“I am very well, thank you. I hope you are feeling well, too, Miss Susanna.”

Marjorie took the small, sturdy hand Miss Susanna extended in both her own. The mistress of Hamilton Arms looked so very tiny in the great room. Marjorie experienced a wave of sudden tenderness for her.

“Yes; I am well, by the grace of God and my own good sense,” returned her hostess in her brisk, almost hard tones. “You are prompt to the hour, child. I like that. I hate to be kept waiting. I have my tea at precisely five o’clock. It is years since I had a guest to tea. Sit down there.” She indicated a straight chair with an ornamental leather back and seat. “Jonas will bring the tea table in directly, and serve the tea. Take off your hat and lay it on the library table. I wish to see you without it.”

She had not more than finished speaking, when the snowy-haired servitor wheeled in a good-sized rosewood tea-table. He drew it up to where Marjorie sat, and brought another chair for the mistress of Hamilton Arms similar to the one on which the guest was sitting. Withdrawing from the room, he left youth and age to take tea together.

“Who would have thought that I should ever pour tea for one of my particular aversions,” Miss Susanna commented with grim humor. “Do you take sugar and cream, child?”

“Two lumps of sugar and no cream.” Marjorie held out her hand for the delicate Sevres cup.

“Help yourself to the muffins and jam. It is red raspberry. I put it up myself. Now eat as though you were hungry. I am always ravenous for my tea. I do not have dinner until eight and I am outdoors so much I grow very hungry as five o’clock approaches.”

“I am awfully hungry,” Marjorie confessed. “I love five o’clock tea. We have it at home in summer but not in winter. We girls at Hamilton hardly ever have it, because we have dinner shortly after six.”

“At what campus house are you?” was the abrupt question.

“Wayland Hall. I like it best of all, though Silverton Hall is a fine house.”

“Wayland Hall,” the old lady repeated. “It was his favorite house.”

“You are speaking of Mr. Brooke Hamilton?” Marjorie inquired with breathless interest. “Miss Remson said it was his favorite house. He was so wonderful. ‘We shall ne’er see his like again,’” she quoted, her brown eyes eloquent.

Miss Susanna stared at her in silence, as though trying to determine the worth of Marjorie’s unexpected remarks.

“He was wonderful,” she said at last. “I am amazed at your appreciation of him. You are an amazing young person, I must say. How much do you know concerning my great uncle that you should have arrived at your truly high opinion of him?”

“I know very little about him except that he loved Hamilton and planned it nobly.” Marjorie’s clear eyes looked straight into her vis-a-vis’s sharp dark ones. “I have asked questions. I have treasured every scrap of information about him that I have heard since I came to Hamilton College. No one seems to know much of him except in a general way.”

“That is true. Well, the fault lies with the college.” The reply hinted of hostility. “Perhaps I will tell you more of him some day. Not now; I am not in the humor. I must get used to having you here first. I try to forget that you are from the college. I told you I did not like girls. I may call you an exception, child. I realized that after you had left me, the day you helped me to the cottage with the chrysanthemums. I was cheered by your company. I am pleased with your admiration for him. He was worthy of it.”

As on the day of her initial meeting with Brooke Hamilton’s great niece, Marjorie was again at a loss as to what to say next. She wished to say how greatly she revered the memory of the founder of Hamilton College. In the face of Miss Susanna’s declaration that she did not wish to talk of him, she could not frame a reply that conveyed her reverence.

“Try these cakes. They are from an old recipÉ the Hamiltons have used for four generations. Ellen, my cook, made these. I seldom do any baking now. I used to when younger. I spend most of my time out of doors in good weather. Let me have your cup.”

Her hostess tendered a plate of delicate little cakes not unlike macaroons. Marjorie helped herself to the cakes and forebore asking questions about Brooke Hamilton. Miss Susanna had partially promised to tell her of him some day. She could do no more than possess her soul in patience.

“What do you do in winter, Miss Hamilton, when you can’t be out?” she questioned interestedly. “Do you live at Hamilton Arms the year round?”

“Yes; I have not been away from here for a number of years. In winter I read and embroider. I do plain sewing for the poor of Hamilton. Jonas takes baskets of clothing and necessities to needy families in the town of Hamilton. ‘The poor ye have always with ye,’ you know.”

“I know,” Marjorie affirmed, her lovely face growing momently sad. “Captain, I mean, my mother, does a good deal of such work in Sanford. I have helped her a little. During our last year at high school a number of us organized a club. We called ourselves the Lookouts and we rented a house and started a day nursery for the mill children. The house was in their district.”

“And how long did you keep it up?” was the somewhat skeptical inquiry.

“Oh, it is running along beautifully yet.” Marjorie laughed as she made answer.

“I am more amazed than before. A club of girls usually hangs together about six weeks. Each girl feels that she ought to be at the head of it and in the end a grand falling-out occurs.” Miss Susanna’s eyes were twinkling. This time her remarks were not pointedly ill-natured. “You are to tell me about this club,” she commanded.

Marjorie complied, giving her a brief history of the day nursery.

“Are any of your Lookouts here at Hamilton with you?” she was interrogated.

“Four of them. One, Lucy Warner, won a scholarship to Hamilton.” Now on the subject, Marjorie determined to make a valiant stand for her chums. She therefore told of the offering of the scholarship by Ronny and of Lucy’s brilliancy as a student. She told of Lucy’s ability as a secretary and of how much she had done to help herself through college. She did not forget to speak of Katherine Langly, and her exceptional winning of a scholarship especially offered by Brooke Hamilton.

“I had no idea there were any such girls over there.” The old lady spoke half to herself. “I might have known there would be some apostles.”

“Miss Susanna,”—Marjorie decided that this would be the best time to acquaint her hostess with what she had purposed to tell her,—“I told my intimate friends of meeting you the day the basket handle broke. I thought you ought to know that. You had asked me in your letter not to mention to anyone that I was coming here. I did not say a word to anyone of the letter. I would ask my chums not to mention what I told them about meeting you in the first place, but, if I do, they will wish to know why.”

“Humph!” The listener used Jerry’s pet interjection. “Where did you tell them you were going today? Some of them must have seen you as you came away.”

“No; they were all out except one girl. She was busy writing a theme.”

“What would you have told them if they had seen you?” Miss Hamilton eyed the young girl searchingly.

“I would have said I was going out and hoped they wouldn’t feel hurt if I didn’t tell them my destination. What else could I have said?” It was Marjorie’s turn to fix her gaze upon her hostess.

“Nothing else, by rights. If I allowed you to tell your chums, as you call them, that you were here today, would they keep your counsel? How many of them would have to know it?” The older woman’s face had softened wonderfully.

Marjorie thought for an instant. “Eight,” she answered. “They are honorable. I would like to tell them.”

“Very well, you may.” The permission came concisely. “I will take your word for their discretion. I have my own proper reasons for not wishing to be gossiped about on the campus. I wish you to come again. I do not wish your visits to be a secret. I abhor that kind of secrecy. Perhaps in time I shall not care if the whole college knows. At present what they do not know will not hurt them. In the words of my distinguished uncle, ‘Be not secret; be discreet.’”