Absorbed in a vain attempt to find a clue to the mysterious prophesier of evil, Marjorie forgot Mary Raymond’s letter until she happened to thrust a hand into her coat pocket on the way home from school at noon. Mary’s long, cheery epistle partially atoned for the hateful sentiments expressed by the unknown. On her return home in the afternoon, a second comforter was accorded her in a letter from Constance Stevens. The day after Marjorie and Jerry had spent the evening at Gray Gables Mr. Stevens had gone to New York. Constance had accompanied him.

Since the great change had taken place in the girl’s life her school days had been more or less broken. Still she managed to keep up in her classes despite frequent short absences from school. It was tacitly understood, not only by Miss Archer, but also by Constance’s other teachers, that she intended to study for a grand opera dÉbut as soon as her high school days were over. The mere possession of so remarkable a voice as was hers rather set her apart in some indefinite fashion from her schoolmates. Where others would have been taken to strict account for absence, she was allowed an unusual amount of consideration. Undoubtedly, the fact that when actually in school she invariably acquitted herself with credit in her various studies had much to do with the leniency accorded her. From a very humble person, she was rapidly becoming a personage from whom Sanford expected one day to hear great things.

Marjorie Dean felt Constance’s absences more keenly than anyone else. She had been particularly lonesome for her friend during this latest one, and the news that Constance would return to Sanford and to school on the following week banished for the time the shadow of the morning’s unpleasant incident.

“Constance will be home on Sunday, Captain,” she caroled gleefully, as she danced about the living room by way of expressing her jubilation.

“I am glad to hear it. You really need the child to cheer you up. You’ve been looking rather solemn lately, my dear. Aren’t you happy in your school? Sit down here and give an account of yourself,” commanded Mrs. Dean with a smile.

“Oh, yes.” The answer was accompanied by a faint sigh, as Marjorie curled up on the floor beside her mother. “So far, this has been rather a queer year, though. Nothing very pleasant has happened except basket ball. That’s always a joy. Our team is doing beautifully. We are to play the sophomores on the Saturday before Thanksgiving. It’s going to be a real tussle. Ellen Seymour says there are some great players among the sophs. You’ll come to the game, Captain?”

“I suppose I must. You consider me a loyal fan. That means I must live up to my reputation. By the way, Lieutenant, did that girl who made you so much trouble enter high school? You never told me.”

“You mean Rowena Farnham? Yes; she was allowed to try another set of examinations. Jerry Macy said she won the chance by only one vote. Jerry’s father’s a member of the Board. I wouldn’t tell anyone else but you, though, about that one vote. She is a sophomore now. I see her in the study hall, but we never speak. The girls say she is quite popular with the sophs. I suppose she’s trying hard to make up her lost ground.” Marjorie’s inflection was slightly bored. She felt that she had small cause for interest in Rowena. She had never told her mother of the latter’s attack on herself and Jerry. She preferred not to think of it, much less talk of it. To her it had seemed utterly senseless, as well as cheap.

“And how is Mignon La Salle doing?” questioned Mrs. Dean. “I haven’t heard you mention her, either. I must say I am very glad that you and she are not likely to be thrown together again. Poor little Mary made a bad mistake last year. It is wonderful that things ever worked out as well as they did.” Mrs. Dean’s face grew stern as she recalled the tangle in which Mary’s obstinacy had involved her daughter.

“Oh, Mignon has found a friend in Rowena Farnham. They go together all the time. Jerry says they will soon fall out. I am sure they are welcome to chum together, if they choose.” Marjorie shrugged her shoulders as though desirous of dismissing both girls from her thoughts.

“Jerry is quite likely to be a true prophet,” commented Mrs. Dean. “She is a very wise girl, but decidedly slangy. I cannot understand why a girl brought up in her surroundings should be so thoroughly addicted to slang.”

“She’s trying awfully hard not to use it.” Recalling Jerry’s recent efforts to speak more elegant English, Marjorie laughed outright. “She’s so funny, Captain. If any other girl I know used slang as she does, I wouldn’t like it. But Jerry! Well, she’s different. Next to Connie and Mary I love her best of all my friends. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“She is a very fine girl, in spite of her brusque ways,” praised Mrs. Dean. “General is fond of her, too.” She added this little tribute lest Marjorie might feel that she had been unduly critical. She understood the fact that Marjorie’s friends were sacred to her and on that account rarely found fault with them. Marjorie could be trusted to choose her associates wisely. Those to whom her sympathies went out usually proved themselves worthy of her regard. Motherly anxiety alone had prompted Mrs. Dean to draw her daughter out with a view toward learning the cause of Marjorie’s recent air of wistful preoccupation. Daily it had become more noticeable. If a repetition of last year’s sorrows threatened her only child, Mrs. Dean did not propose to be kept in the dark until it became well-nigh impossible to adjust matters.

Secretly Marjorie was aware of this anxiety on her mother’s part. She felt that she ought to show her Captain the sinister letters she had received, yet she was loath to do so. Her mother’s inquiry concerning Mignon had caused her to reflect uneasily that now if ever was the moment for unburdening her mind. “Captain,” she began, “you know that something is bothering me, don’t you?”

“Yes. I have been hoping you would tell me.” Mrs. Dean laid an encouraging hand on the drooping, brown head against her knee.

“Wait a minute.” Imbued with a desperate energy, Marjorie sprang to her feet and ran from the room. She soon returned, the disturbing letters clutched tightly in one hand. “I wish you to read these,” she said. Tendering them to her mother, she drew up a chair opposite Mrs. Dean and sat down.

Silence hung over the cheerful room while Mrs. Dean acquainted herself with the cause of Marjorie’s perturbation. Contempt filled her voice as she finally said: “A most despicable bit of work, Lieutenant. The writer had good reason to withhold her true name. So this explains the solemn face you have been wearing of late. I wouldn’t take it very deeply to heart, my dear. Whoever wrote these letters must possess a most cowardly nature.”

“That’s just what I think,” nodded Marjorie. “You see it really started with the letter Miss Archer received. You know, the one about the algebra problem. The only person I can really suspect of writing any of them is Mignon. But she’s not this sort of coward. Besides, I don’t believe she’d write just this kind of letter. What sort of person do you think would, Captain?”

Before answering, Mrs. Dean thoughtfully reread both letters. “It is hard to say,” she mused. “It looks to me as though the writer of them might have been prompted by jealousy. The second one in particular is full of jealous spite. I suppose you don’t care to let Miss Archer see them.”

“No.” Marjorie shook a vehement head. “I’d rather worry through without that. Perhaps there won’t be any more of them. I hope not. Anyway, I’m glad I told you about them. If another does come, I can bring it to you and not feel so bad over it as if I had to think things out alone. Even if I knew this very minute who wrote them, I don’t know what I’d do about it. It would depend upon who the girl was, whether or not I’d say anything to her. It’s all very mysterious and aggravating, isn’t it?” she added wistfully.

“It’s far worse than that.” Mrs. Dean’s lips set in a displeased line. “Sanford High School appears to harbor some very peculiar girls. I can’t imagine any such thing happening to you at Franklin High. I don’t like it at all. If the rest of your junior year is going to be like this, you might better go away to a good preparatory school.”

“Oh, Captain, don’t say that!” Marjorie cried out in distress. “I couldn’t bear to leave you and General and Sanford High. I’d be terribly unhappy away from home. Please say you didn’t really mean that.” Tears lurked in her pleading tones.

“Now, now, Lieutenant,” came the soothing reply, “don’t be so ready to run out to meet calamity. I only suggested your going away as a means of taking you out of these pits you seem always innocently to be tumbling into. You know that General and I could hardly get along without our girl. It is of your welfare I am thinking.”

Marjorie slipped to her mother’s side and wound coaxing arms about her. “I was afraid this would hurt you. That’s why I hated to tell you. Don’t worry, Captain. Everything will come out all right. It always has, you know. So long as I keep a clear conscience, nothing can really hurt me. I hope I’m too good a soldier to be frightened, just because I’ve been fired upon by an unseen enemy. If I ran away now I’d be a deserter, and a deserter’s a disgrace to an army. So you see there’s only one thing to do; stand by and stick fast to my colors. I’ve got to be a soldier in earnest.”