“Br-r-r!” Muriel made a pretense of shivering. “Did you notice how the Ice Queen scorned us? And what a noted person she had with her?” She waited until they had put a few yards between themselves and the other pair of girls before sarcastically launching the inquiries.

“Yes, I saw,” Marjorie returned composedly. “I’m sorry. I knew Leslie Cairns was living in the town of Hamilton. This is the first time I have seen her since last summer.”

“It’s the first time I’ve seen her since before she left college,” Muriel replied. “She’s homelier than ever, but that cheviot sports suit and hat she has on are dreams. What a splendid combination—the Hob-goblin and the Ice Queen!” Muriel’s private pet name for Leslie Cairns had always been the “Hob-goblin.” “Sounds like the title of a fairy tale, doesn’t it?”

“Exactly.” Marjorie nodded abstractedly. She had forgotten Muriel’s uncomplimentary name for Leslie. With the return of it to memory came her own imaginative fancy regarding Doris Monroe. Yes, Doris was truly like an enchanted princess. Now Leslie Cairns had suddenly appeared, bearing fanciful resemblance to a wicked wizard. Marjorie smiled to herself at her own absurdity of thought. Still it made a certain impression on her which time did not obliterate.

“What are you thinking about, Marvelous Manager?” Muriel gave her chum’s arm an emphatic tug. The two had kept up their swinging stride and were now nearing Silverton Hall. “Come down out of the clouds.”

“Wasn’t up in them,” Marjorie smilingly denied. “I was thinking about Miss Monroe, and——”

“And the fatal results of cultivating Leslie Cairns,” interrupted Muriel mockingly. “Don’t worry, Marjorie. Trust the icy Ice Queen to look out for her own interests. Greek has met Greek. I’ve roomed long enough with the Ice Queen to know that she always pleases herself first. This being Leslie Cairns’ motto, we may presently expect to find them on the outs.”

“I hope so.” Marjorie was not sanguine. “I’ve learned by experience, Muriel, not to under-rate Leslie Cairns’ capacity for making trouble.”

“Oh, I know she’s a star trouble maker, even if she has never succeeded in anything she tried to do to injure us,” Muriel readily admitted. “But you stood so staunchly for the right, Marjorie Dean, in all the fusses we had with her and the rest of the Sans, things simply had to turn out O. K. at the last.”

“I didn’t stand out more strongly for the right than any of the other Travelers,” Marjorie hastily corrected, her reply bordering on vexation.

“Certainly, you did, Modest Manager,” Muriel cheerfully contradicted. “I have all the proofs of the case at my tongue’s end.”

“Keep them there,” Marjorie told her with feigned displeasure.

“Oh, very well.” Muriel was all amiability. “I may think of some other sweet little thing about you later.”

Readers of the “Marjorie Dean High School Series,” which comprises four volumes, and the “Marjorie Dean College Series,” also in four volumes, are thoroughly at home with Marjorie Dean and her many friends. “Marjorie Dean, College Post Graduate,” forms the initial volume in the “Marjorie Dean Post Graduate Series.” Returned to Hamilton College as a post graduate Marjorie took up the work she had set her heart upon doing. Surrounded by a devoted circle of girls who had kept pace with her in college, Marjorie felt that her most momentous year of enterprise and accomplishment had come.

Lack of unity at Wayland Hall had distressed her not a little since her return to the campus. She had dreamed rosy dreams of a unified Hamilton which she had fondly hoped might come true that very year. Instead, Wayland Hall, the house she loved best of all the campus houses, and her own roof tree, was brimming with dissention. She was now reflecting rather dispiritedly concerning this very thing. The encounter with Leslie Cairns and Doris Monroe had brought it foremost to her mind.

“I wonder how long Miss Monroe has known Miss Cairns?” she now mused aloud.

“Long enough to know better. There you go again, worrying over that selfish iceberg,” Muriel cried impatiently. “I might beneficently warn her against the snares of the Hob-goblin, but would she be grateful? Far from it. No, no, Muriel. Never contemplate such folly.” Muriel answered her own question in a prim, horrified tone.

“I quite agree with Muriel,” Marjorie smiled faintly.

“Some of the upper class girls may tell her a few things about Leslie Cairns. They’d not forget her and the Sans in a hurry. If you had to room with her you’d lose your crush on her. She’s exasperating.”

“I can’t help admiring her. She is so beautiful,” Marjorie made frank avowal. “I always have to stop and remember that she isn’t amiable. There was one thing in particular that I noticed on the night last summer when we invited her downstairs to Miss Remson’s spread. She was truthful. She didn’t say she was too tired, or make any other excuses. She said flatly that she didn’t care to come downstairs. Again, afterward, when we were in Vera’s car and met her out walking one Sunday afternoon, we asked her to ride with us. She refused our invitation in the same scornful way. Still it was the real way she felt. A girl who wouldn’t bother to deceive others must have principle,” Marjorie earnestly advanced.

“Hum-m. That remains to be seen.” Muriel was not thus easily convinced. “But will I be the one to see? At present the Ice Queen and I are as intimate as the North and South Poles. We don’t even study at the same table.”

“Poor old Muriel. Was it lonesome?” Marjorie flung an arm across Muriel’s shoulders. They were now turning in at the flagstone walk in front of Silverton Hall.

“Yes, it was,” grumbled Muriel. “But it’s my own fault. I took that half a room to please myself. You girls ought to appreciate me and make a fuss over me because I refused to be separated from the Sanfordites.”

“I’ll call a special meeting after the Travelers go tonight and remind the Sanfordites of their duty,” Marjorie teasingly promised as they went up the steps of the Hall.

The blended harmony of violin and piano outside Robin Page’s room halted the visitors before the closed door. They had no more than willingly paused to listen when the music stopped.

“My last A string,” mourned a voice. “I’ll have to go clear to town for another. How provoking!”

Marjorie knocked three times in quick succession on the door, hers and Robin’s particular rap. There was a scurry of light feet across the floor then Robin joyfully opened the door.

“What luck!” she exulted as she did a pleased little prance around the callers. “I was coming over to Wayland Hall directly after dinner. I’ve such a lot of things to get off my chest.” She sighed. “I’m fairly stuffed with responsibility. Hello, Muriel Harding. I haven’t seen you for as much as two days. Where have you been keeping yourself? I want you for a singing number I’m going to have in our first show. We’re going to open with a revue, you know.”

“My A string just snapped,” Phyllis Moore was ruefully informing Marjorie. “So aggravating. I was going to put in two hours of practice this evening. The only store in Hamilton where I can get another string closes at five o’clock. Goodness knows when I’ll be imbued again with such a laudable desire to practice.”

“You couldn’t practice tonight if you had fifty A strings,” Marjorie told her. “The time has come to open the box, Phil.”

“Oh, lovely!” Phyllis’ charming face lighted with pleasure. “Away with practice.” She waved both arms outward with a buoyant releasing gesture.

“You’re to come over to Wayland Hall now; you and Robin. Where’s Barbara?”

“In her room, stuck with a theme. Hope she’s struggled through it by this time. If she hasn’t, I’ll make her leave it; just as though it was a finished literary triumph. I’ll go for her now.” Phil dashed out the door and down the hall to Barbara Severn’s room.

She returned in an incredibly short space of time with Barbara, the latter in outdoor attire.

“Hello, Red Bird,” greeted Muriel. “Who so gay as you?” She shook Barbara by both hands, then turned her around so as to inspect her coat and cap of a wonderful shade of deep crimson, the gorgeous hue accentuated by wide collar, cuffs and bandings of bear’s fur. “What a love of a coat and cap!”

“Isn’t it, though? I am always planning to waylay Barbara on the campus some fine dark evening and strip her of that de luxe red coat and cap.” Phil made threatening eyes at Barbara.

“I’m safe. She doesn’t quite dare risk her dignity as president of the senior class,” laughed Barbara.

Robin had already donned her wraps. It took energetic Phil not more than a minute to snatch her own smart coat of gray tweed from its accustomed hanger. She pulled a black soft Tam-o’-shanter with its huge fluffy black pom-pom down upon her crinkling yellow-brown hair at a truly artistic angle.

“Phil looks more like a wandering musician than ever in that Tam,” was Marjorie’s admiring opinion. The individuality of Phyllis’ clothes and the careless, artistic grace with which the tall, supple girl wore them were a joy to Marjorie.

Down the stairs and out of the house trooped the five friends, bent on making as good time to Wayland Hall as they could. Robin, Phil and Marjorie were anxious to have a talk before dinner about the program for the coming revue and their entertainment plans for Thanksgiving. Muriel had decided to go to town with Jerry and Leila in the car to help buy the eats for the spread. Barbara was eager to see Lucy Warner and glean from her certain biological pointers of which she stood in need. The group sped across the campus, reaching the Hall at just five o’clock.

“No mail for Muriel. What’s the matter with the population of Sanford that I don’t get any letters?” Muriel demanded severely as she turned away disappointedly from the Hall bulletin board.

“I had no idea of your vast importance in Sanford,” giggled Barbara. “You talk as though you were the mayor of the town.”

“Not yet,” grinned Muriel. “I may be the mayoress of Sanford some day—say in about a hundred years from now.” She duplicated Barbara’s giggle. “Marjorie’s the scintillating social star of Sanford.”

Marjorie said not a word as she picked several letters from the bulletin board. Her eyes were glowing like stars at the harvest of mail. There was a letter from General; another from Captain; a third in Mary Raymond’s neat vertical script, had come from far-off Colorado. There was a fourth from Constance Armitage. Fifth and last was a letter in the sprawling childish writing of Charlie Stevens. She and Charlie, the latter now grown into a tall sturdy youngster of thirteen, were regular and enthusiastic correspondents.

In the rack above her own mail she caught sight of two letters for Jerry. One of them was in Helen Trent’s familiar hand. The other—A swift blush overspread Marjorie’s cheeks as she took the two letters from the board and placed them with her own. She knew only too well whose hand had dashed the address across the envelope.

Immersed as she had been in college matters she had given her old pal, Hal Macy, scant thought since her return to Hamilton campus. Sight of his letter to Jerry gave her pause; reminded her of something which intruded itself upon her not quite agreeably. Hal had not answered the latest letter she had written him. It had really been a long while since she had heard from him.