Marjorie awoke the next morning with a dull ache in her heart. It was as though she had been the victim of a bad dream. She stared gloomily about her, struggling to recollect the cause of her depression. Then remembrance rushed over her like a wave. No, she had not dreamed. Last night had been only too real. If anyone had even intimated to her beforehand that the party which had promised so much was fated to end so disagreeably, she would have laughed the prediction to scorn. If only Jerry had kept her unpleasantly candid remarks to herself! Yet, after all, she could hardly blame her very much. What Jerry had said had been intended for her ears alone. As hostess, however, she should not have permitted Jerry to continue. Marjorie blamed herself heavily for this. To be sure, it had been hardly fair in Mary and Mignon to listen. They should have made known their presence. She wondered what she would have done under the same circumstances. Her sense of honor answered her. She knew she would have immediately come forward. She could not understand why Mary had not done so. Loyal to the core, Marjorie's faith in her chum refused to die. The Mary she had known for so many years had not been lacking in honor. What she had feared from the first had come to pass. Mary had been swayed by Mignon's baleful personality. The much-talked-of reform had ended in a glaring fizzle.

For some time Marjorie lay still, her thoughts busy with the disquieting events of the previous night. She had longed to turn and comfort the tense little figure standing immovable in the middle of her room, but her Captain's word was law, and Marjorie could but sadly acknowledge to herself that her mother had acted for the best. So she could do nothing but follow her from the room with a heavy heart.

What was to be the outcome of the affair she dared not even imagine. A reconciliation with Mary was her earnest desire. This, however, could hardly be brought about. Perhaps they would never again be friends. A rush of tears blinded her brown eyes. Burying her face in the pillow, Marjorie gave vent to the sorrow which overflowed her soul.

The sound of light, tapping fingers on the door caused her to sit up hastily. "Come in," she called, trying to steady her voice.

The door opened to admit Mary Raymond. Her babyish face looked white and wan in the clear morning light. For hours after her door had closed upon Marjorie and her mother she had sat on the edge of her bed in her pretty blue party frock, brooding on her wrongs. When she had finally prepared for sleep, it was only to toss and turn in her bed, wide-awake and resentful. At daylight she had risen listlessly, then fixing upon a certain plan of action, had bathed, put on a simple house gown and knocked at Marjorie's door.

A single glance at Marjorie's face was sufficient for her to determine that her chum had been crying. She decided that she was glad of it. Marjorie had made her unhappy, now she deserved a similar fate.

"Why, Mary!" Marjorie sprang from the bed and advanced to meet her. Involuntarily both arms were outstretched in tender appeal.

Mary took no notice of the mutely pleading arms, save to step back with a cold gesture of avoidance.

"I haven't come here to be friends," she said with deliberate cruelty. "I've come to ask you what you intend to say to your mother."

"What can I say to her?" Marjorie's voice had a despairing note.

"You can say nothing," retorted Mary. "That is what I intend to do. Your friend, Jerry Macy, said too much last night. I cannot see why our school affairs should be discussed in this house. I am sorry that Mignon made a—a—disturbance last night. I didn't intend to listen, but——" Her old-time frankness had almost overcome her newly hostile bearing. She was on the point of saying that she had been ready to step forth from behind the palms at Jerry's first speech. Then loyalty to Mignon prevailed and she paused.

Marjorie caught at a straw. "I knew you didn't intend to listen, Mary." The assurance rang out earnestly. "I couldn't make myself believe that you would. I wanted to stay last night and tell you how sorry I was for—for everything, but I owed it to Captain to obey orders. Mary, dear, can't we start over again? I'm sure it's all been a stupid mistake. Let's be good soldiers and resolve to face that dreadful enemy, Misunderstanding, together. Let's go to Captain and tell her every single thing! Think how much better we'll both feel. It almost broke my heart, last night, when you said you were going to Mignon's to live. If Captain thinks it best, I'll break my promise to Connie and tell you——"

At the mention of Constance Stevens' name Mary's face darkened. Touched by Marjorie's impassioned appeal she had been tempted to break down the barrier that rose between them and take the girl she still adored into her stubborn heart again. But the mere name of Constance had acted as a spur to her rancor.

"Don't trouble yourself about begging permission of Miss Stevens on my account," she sneered. "I know a great deal too much of her already. What do you suppose the girls and boys of Franklin High, who gave you your butterfly pin, would say if they knew that you let the girl who stole it from you wear it for months? If you had been honorable you would have made her give it back and then dropped her forever."

Marjorie's sorrow disappeared in wrath. "Mary Raymond, you don't know what you are talking about," she flamed. "I can guess who told you that untruth. It was Mignon La Salle. It was not Constance who took my butterfly pin. It was——"

Again she remembered her promise.

"Well," jeered Mary, "who was it, then?"

"I shall not say another word until I see Captain." Marjorie's tones were freighted with decision.

"You mean that you can't deny that your friend Constance was guilty," cut in Mary scornfully. "Never mind. I don't care to hear anything more. You needn't consult your mother, either. I'm never going to be friends with you again, so it doesn't matter. But if you ever cared the least bit for me you'll do as I ask and not tell tales to Captain—I mean Mrs. Dean," she corrected haughtily. "If you do, then I repeat what I said the other day. I'll never speak to you again—no, not if I live here forever. But I won't have to do that, for I shall write to Father and ask him to let me go to Mignon's to live. So there!"

With this dire threat Mary flounced angrily from the room, well pleased with the stand she had taken.

It was a most unsociable trio that gathered at the breakfast table that Saturday morning. Mary carried herself with open belligerence. Marjorie looked as though she was on the point of bursting into tears, while Mrs. Dean was unusually grave. A delicate task lay before her and she was wondering as she poured the coffee how she had best begin. Still she had determined to thresh the matter out speedily, and as soon as Delia had served the breakfast and retired to the kitchen, she glanced from one to the other of the two principals and said, "Now, girls, I am waiting to hear about last night."

A blank silence fell. Marjorie fixed her eyes on Mary. To her belonged the first word.

The silence continued.

"Well, Mary," Mrs. Dean spoke at last, "what have you to say for yourself?"

"Nothing," came the mutinous reply.

"I am sorry that you won't meet me frankly," commented Mrs. Dean. "I had hoped to find you on duty." Her searching gaze rested on Marjorie "Lieutenant, it is your turn, I think."

Marjorie flushed with distress. She was between two fires. Obedience won. She related what had transpired in the hall in a few brief words, shielding Mary as far as was possible.

"But I know all this," said Mrs. Dean, a trifle impatiently. "Jerry told me last night. There is more to this affair than appears on the surface. What has happened to estrange you two, who have been chums for so many years? I have seen for some time that matters were not progressing smoothly between you. Things cannot go on in this way. You must take me into your confidence. It is evident that a reform is needed here at home."

Mary stared fixedly at her plate. She was resolved not to be a party to that reform. If Marjorie failed her, well—she knew the consequences.

Marjorie saw the sullen, mutinous face through a mist of tears. She tried to speak, but speech refused to come.

"I am ashamed of my soldiers." Mrs. Dean spoke sadly. "What would General say, if he were here?"

The grave question rang like a clarion call in Marjorie's soul. A vision of her father's merry, quizzical eyes grown suddenly sober and hurt over the stubborn resistance of his little army was too much for her. One mournfully appealing glance at the unyielding Mary and she burst forth with, "I can't stand it any longer. I must speak. Last year, when—when—Connie and I had so many unhappy days over my lost butterfly pin I didn't write Mary about what was happening, because I felt terribly and wished her to know only the pleasant side of my school life. So she hadn't the least idea that Connie and I had become such friends. She thought Connie was just a poor girl whom I tried to help because I was sorry for her. When I asked Connie to come with us to the station to meet Mary I was so happy to think they were going to meet that I am afraid I made Mary believe that Connie had taken her place with me. You know, Captain, that it couldn't be so. Mary has been and always will be my dearest friend. I never dreamed she would become——" Marjorie hesitated. She could not bring herself to say "jealous."

A smile of contempt curved Mary's lips. "Why don't you say 'jealous'? That's what you mean," she supplemented.

"Very well, I will say it," rejoined Marjorie quietly. "I never dreamed Mary would become jealous of my friendship with Connie. Before long I noticed she was not quite her own dear self. Then she said something that made me see that I ought to tell her all about last year, but I didn't feel that it would be right until I had asked Connie's permission. I told Mary I would do that very thing, but at Connie's dance before I ever had a chance she asked me not to say anything. She was still so hurt over that affair of my pin that she was afraid Mary might not like her so much if she knew. I didn't know what to do, then. If I were to say that Mary had asked me to tell her, well—I thought Connie might think her curious."

Mary made a half-stifled exclamation of anger. Then she shrugged her shoulders with inimitable contempt and fixed her gaze on the opposite wall, assuming an air of boredom she was far from feeling.

"Go on," commanded Mrs. Dean. Marjorie had hesitated at the interruption.

"There isn't much more to tell," continued Marjorie bravely, "only that Mignon came back to school and met Mary and made mischief. You know the rest, Captain. You remember what I said to you the other day——"

"Then you had told your mother things about me, already!" burst forth Mary furiously. "Very well. You know what I said this morning. Just remember it."

Marjorie gazed piteously at the angry girl. She could not believe that Mary intended to carry out her threat of the morning.

"What did you say to Marjorie this morning?" inquired Mrs. Dean in cold displeasure. She was endeavoring to be impartial, but her clear mental vision pointed that it was not her daughter who was at fault.

Mary's reply was flung defiantly forth. "I said I'd never speak to her again, and I won't! I won't!"

If Mary had expected Mrs. Dean either to order her to reconsider her rash words or plead with her for reconciliation, she was doomed to disappointment. "We will take you at your word, Mary," came the calm answer. "Hereafter Marjorie must not speak to you unless you address her first. Of course, it will be unpleasant for all of us, but I can see nothing else to be done. You may write to your father if you choose. He will undoubtedly write me in return, and naturally I shall tell him the plain, unvarnished truth, together with several items of interest concerning Mignon La Salle which cannot be withheld from him. I shall not forbid you to continue your friendship with her. You are old enough now to know right from wrong. So long as she does nothing to break the conventions of society, I can condemn her only as a trouble-maker. My advice to you would be to drop her acquaintance. When Constance returns it would be well for you and Marjorie to invite her here and clear up this difficulty. However, that rests with you. So far as General and I are concerned, nothing is changed. We shall continue to the utmost to fulfill your father's trust in us. Now, once and for all, we will drop the subject. I must insist on no more bickering and quarreling in my house. That applies to both of you."

"Please let me say just one thing more, Captain." Marjorie turned imploring eyes upon her mother. "If Mary will let me bring Connie here, when she comes back, I'm sure every cloud can be cleared away. Mary," her vibrant tones throbbed with tender sympathy, "won't you take back what you've said and believe in me?"

For answer Mary Raymond rose from the table and left the room, obstinately trampling friendship and good will under her wayward feet. She had begun to keep her vow.

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