“You don’t mean you’re going to back out now, Vivian, when we’ve made all arrangements, and you’ve promised to go?”

“I—I didn’t say I was going to back out, Imogene. I just said I wished I hadn’t promised. It doesn’t seem nearly so much fun as it did, and, besides, I know I’ll get caught!”

“Of course you will, if you lose your nerve like that. But if you do as we’ve planned, there isn’t a chance in a thousand. No one will wonder why you’re not at supper, because you’re absent so often; and it will be easy enough to slip out while we’re eating. Then by the time you’re driving off, we’ll all be at that Art lecture; and with the lights off and only the stereopticon, no one will miss you. And by the time we get home, you’ll be here in bed. Why, it’s as smooth as a whistle, and you ought to be everlastingly grateful to Dot and me for fixing it up for you. No other girl in St. Helen’s has ever gone out driving with a man, and you’ll have the story to tell your children.”

Poor Vivian looked for a moment as though she doubted her future children’s pride in their mother’s achievement; but she had long ago put her hand to the plow, and there seemed no turning back.

“Of course I’m going now that it’s gone so far, and I’ve promised,” she said desperately. “But I don’t believe Dorothy thinks it’s so much as she did. She said to-day she sort of wished we hadn’t done it.”

Imogene looked uncomfortable. Dorothy’s strange disloyalty during the weeks since the Easter holidays had greatly disturbed her.

“Dot needn’t act so righteous all of a sudden,” she said bitterly. “I’d like to know who planned this whole thing if she didn’t. I’d certainly never have thought of the birch tree post-office; and she’s been mail-carrier more than half the time. It’s a late day to back out now.”

“She isn’t backing out, Imogene. She only said she wished we hadn’t planned it in the first place; but since we had, of course we’d have to see it through. I don’t think you and she need worry anyway. It’s I that’s going to get the blame; and I shan’t tell on you even if I am caught.”

“Tell on us!” Imogene’s tone was more biting than ever. “Well, I should hope you wouldn’t! Who’s superintended this thing, I’d like to know? Who’s been bringing boxes of candy from him all the way up here to you, and running the risk of being caught? Who’s been posting your notes for you all winter long?”

After listening to this exoneration, Vivian was on the point of tears, and Imogene, feeling that her room-mate’s courage must be kept up at any cost, changed her tone.

“To-morrow you’ll be laughing up your sleeve, and saying what a splendid time you had. Besides, think what fun it’s been all along. We’ve fooled every one in school. No one has suspected a thing! And think of all the candy you’ve had. Of course, he’ll have another box to-night.”

The unhappy Vivian dried her tears, but her face did not brighten. In fact, she did not look at all like a person who was about to enjoy a long-anticipated evening drive.

“Imogene,” she said, and there was an unusual tone of self-assertion in her voice, which surprised her room-mate, “Imogene, I want you to know that a hundred boxes of candy don’t make one feel right inside.”

While this conversation was taking place behind a closed door in The Hermitage, there was another person in the woods by the Retreat, who likewise did not feel right inside. The other person was Dorothy. She had declined Virginia’s and Priscilla’s invitation to go after violets, much as she would have liked to accept, in the hope of easing her conscience; curtly refused to walk with Imogene; and studiously sought to evade the accusing eyes of Vivian. Seizing her opportunity, she had run away from them all, and now sat alone under the pines by the Retreat, trying to think of a way out of her difficulty—a way that would save Vivian from the consequences of an act for which she was really not to blame.

Ever since September Dorothy had sent her rootlets into the waste places of indolence and poor companionship; and now that she had truly resolved to change it seemed to her discouraged heart almost too late. She and Imogene were to blame for the situation which confronted her—not Vivian. Ever since the sallow, white-coated Leslie had entered the employ of the “Forget-me-not,” she and Imogene had directed susceptible Vivian’s attention toward his evident admiration. It was they who had all through the winter and early spring transported his gifts to Vivian; they, who, weary of the monotony which through idleness they made themselves, had seized upon Dorothy’s idea of a secret post-office; and finally, they who had proposed through the means of the post-office that the enamored Leslie take Vivian for an evening drive. Now the crisis was at hand, and what could she do to avert it?

She sat in a wretched little heap beneath the pines, and thoroughly despised Dorothy Richards. She had made a failure of the whole year—in grades, in conduct, in character. The first was bad enough, for she knew that Mary was right. It was she who was helping The Hermitage lose the cup—the scholarship cup which it had determined to win from Hathaway. The second was worse, for she had forfeited Miss Wallace’s confidence, and had aroused the righteous suspicion of the girls. But the last was worst of all! She had allowed herself to be weakly influenced by Imogene, had been disloyal to Priscilla and Virginia, had been very nearly dishonest, if not quite so, and had pitiably lost her own self-respect. And now, even though she was tired of it all, even though she desired deep in her heart to turn her rootlets into better soil, perhaps it was too late. Perhaps, after all, she was not strong enough.

A brown thrasher, who sat on her newly-made nest in a near-by thicket and watched the girl beneath the pines, wondered perhaps at the strange ways of mortals. For even though the sun was bright and the whole world filled with joy, this girl all at once burst into tears, and cried between her sobs:

“Oh, dear, what shall I do? I’ll never be any different—never! And Priscilla and Virginia will never like me again when they know about tonight!”

But remorse, though quite appropriate under the circumstances, and doubtless likely to bear fruit in the future, was useless just at present. Dorothy soon realized that, and sat up again, much to the relief of the brown thrasher, who felt safer now that this strange person sobbed no more. A situation confronted her and must be met. Was there any way to save Vivian, and at the same time not implicate Imogene? Were Dorothy alone to blame, she would go to Miss Wallace and tell the whole story; but she knew that Miss Wallace had previously suspected Imogene with good cause, and she did not wish to run the risk of getting Imogene into further trouble, even though she might richly deserve it. Of course, Vivian might be easily persuaded to stay at home and not meet her knight-errant of the soda-fountain, who was to find her at seven o’clock by the birch tree; but that meant anger and certain revenge on the part of Imogene, besides the probability of the disappointed Leslie communicating his disappointment in such a way as would eventually reach the ears of some member of St. Helen’s faculty.

The five-thirty warning bell found the question unsolved, and a sadly troubled Dorothy walked slowly homeward. She was purposely late to supper, for she did not wish to encounter Imogene or Vivian. As she left the wood-path and came out upon the campus, she saw hurrying down the hill a short, plump figure in a red sweater. Vivian, on the way to meet her knight!

At supper Dorothy tried in vain to eat the food upon her plate. Impossible schemes, each vetoed as soon as concocted, were born but to die. It was only when Priscilla and Virginia, excused early for tennis, left the table, that an inspiration seized her. Almost without waiting for Miss Wallace’s nod of permission, she ran from the dining-room, flew up the stairs, and burst into Priscilla’s and Virginia’s room, where they, surprised, paused in the act of lacing their tennis shoes.

“Oh, Virginia,” she cried, “go quick! Vivian will listen to you, and she won’t to me, because I’ve been so mean. Oh, lace your shoes quickly! She is down by the birch tree, just beyond the gates on the road to Hillcrest, waiting for—for that silly Leslie, who’s coming to take her to drive. And it’s not her fault, because we—I mean I—put her up to do it. And you can hate and despise and detest me, if you want to, only hurry, and make him go away!”

The founder of the Vigilantes needed no further explanation. So this was the meaning of her discovery a month ago! She sprang to her feet, raced through the hall, down the stairs, and across the campus toward the road, while the contrite Dorothy remained to confess the whole miserable story to Priscilla. It was Friday evening and there was no study hour after supper, so that Virginia could leave The Hermitage without exciting surprise. Moreover, the girls in the cottages were all at supper, and there was no one to note her hurried flight down the hill. Dorothy had not said at what hour Vivian’s cavalier would arrive, and there was no time to be lost. Even then they might be driving away. Almost out of breath she raced down the hill, through the pine woods, out the stone gates, and into the main road. A quarter of a mile away, coming from the direction of Hillcrest, she saw a runabout, in which sat a solitary figure, who seeing her at that distance waved his hand as a signal.

“It’s that silly thing!” breathed Virginia to herself. “He thinks I’m Vivian. Oh, I’m glad I’m not too late!”

She dashed down the road and into the rude path through the alders to the birch tree. There, at its base, hidden by the alders from the view of those who passed, crouched poor, trembling Vivian. She had half risen, as Virginia crashed through the bushes, thinking that her cavalier was approaching; but at the sight of the panting Virginia, she shrank back against the tree.

“Why—why, Virginia,” she stammered. “Why—why, what do you want?”

Virginia was almost too breathless to answer.

“I’ve—come—to meet—your friend, Vivian,” she managed to gasp. “He’s coming now. He’ll be here in a moment.”

“I—I think I’m scared,” gasped Vivian in her turn, shrinking farther back against the tree. “Aren’t you, Virginia?”

“No,” said her deliverer, gaining breath at every moment, “no, Vivian, I certainly am not scared. I feel as brave as Theseus, though Leslie isn’t much of a Minotaur, I must say!”

The sound of a horse’s feet-came nearer and nearer, then stopped. A carriage creaked as some one jumped from it; twigs snapped as some one came crashing through them. Vivian hugged the old tree for support, and turned her face toward the pasture. Virginia braced herself for the attack, her back against the tree, her arms folded Napoleon-wise, her head high, her eyes flashing. As the bushes parted and the soda-fountain clerk emerged and stepped into the trysting-place, a more surprised youth could not have been found in the State of Massachusetts.

Arrayed in a new and gallantly worn linen duster, his hat on the side of his head, a box of candy under one arm, he stood as though rooted to the spot, an amazed and sickly smile playing over his more sickly countenance. What had happened? Was he to escort two ladies instead of one? His eye-glasses, attached by a gold chain to his ear, trembled as his pale gaze, expressionless save for surprise, tried to encompass the figure who still embraced the tree. But all in vain, for ever he encountered a pair of flashing gray eyes, which, steady and disdainful, never once left his own.

“You may go now,” said the owner of the eyes, after what seemed long minutes to the faithful Leslie, “and don’t you ever come here again! This isn’t a post-office any longer. You’re too unspeakably silly for any use, and Vivian thinks so just the same as the rest of us. You belong to a soda-fountain, for you’re just as sickish as vanilla ice-cream, and as senseless as soda-water. Now go!”

The subdued Leslie needed no second bidding. He went. They heard his hurrying feet crash through the roadside thicket, the creaking of his carriage as with one bound he leaped into it, and the crack of the whip, as he warned his steed to do no tarrying in that locality. Then Virginia turned her attention to Vivian who by this time was in an hysterical little heap at the foot of the big old tree.

“It’s all right, Vivian,” she said, with her arms around Vivian’s shaking shoulders. “He’s gone and he won’t come back. He’ll be in New York by midnight, if he keeps on going. Please don’t cry any more.”

But Vivian could not stop just then. To be sure, the result of her foolishness had been checked before it was too late; but nothing could blot out the foolishness itself; and it was that which was breaking her heart.

“Oh, I’m not crying about him!” she said between her sobs. “I despise him! I’m crying because I’ve been so silly, and nobody’ll ever forget it. I don’t care what Dorothy and Imogene say. It’s what’s inside of me that hurts! And everybody’ll know how silly I’ve been! Oh, why can’t I be different than I am?”

“Everybody won’t know, Vivian. Oh, please don’t cry so! Nobody’ll know except Priscilla and me, and we’ll think all the more of you. And Dorothy feels worse than you, because she’s been even more to blame. ’Twas she that told me, and made me come to help you.”

Vivian stopped crying from sheer surprise. So Dorothy felt bad inside too, and had tried to help her. That was comforting.

“And as for Imogene,” Virginia continued, “if she once dares to tease you for trying not to be foolish any more,—if she dares,—well. I shouldn’t want to say what might happen!”

The distant sound of a bell rang through the still air.

“Now, Vivian, there’s the lecture bell, and if we don’t go, somebody will suspect. You’ll feel better inside, if you just make up your mind that you’re not going to be silly any longer. I’m your true friend, and so is Priscilla; and, if you’ll let us, we’ll try to help you to—to find better soil for your roots, just the way we’re trying to do.”

So the world looked a little brighter to Vivian as she left the hated post-office and walked back toward St. Helen’s with her “true friend’s” arm around her. Perhaps, after all, if she tried hard, she might, some day, be a little different. As they turned into St. Helen’s gateway, they met Dorothy and the Senior monitor, walking arm in arm. Dorothy’s eyes were red from crying, and the face of the Senior monitor was stern, though it grew kind again as she came up to Vivian and Virginia.

“It’s going to be all right, Vivian,” she said, “and we’re every one your friends. Don’t you feel bad any more.”

“And I’m going to begin all over again and be your friend, Vivian,” said Dorothy, tears very near the surface again, “if you’ll forgive me, and let me try. But if you won’t, I’ll never blame you, because I’ve been so frightfully miserable to you!”

But Vivian, feeling undeservedly rich, put her arm close around Dorothy, while Mary went to Virginia’s side, and the four of them climbed the hill toward St. Helen’s together. There were yet fifteen minutes before the lecture, and those fifteen minutes were spent, with the addition of Priscilla, in Imogene Meredith’s room. The Senior monitor spoke more plainly than they had ever heard her speak before during that secret and never-to-be-forgotten session, and Imogene, for at least once in her life, felt with the fabulous barnyard fowls in the old tale, quite as though her “sky were falling.” A week later, to the surprise of all St. Helen’s, except perhaps the faculty, Mrs. Meredith arrived. She had decided to take Imogene to the mountains, she said, for the remainder of the year. Her health seemed failing, and she feared a nervous breakdown.

As for the chivalrous Leslie, the “Forget-me-not” knew him no more; for on the very day after his sudden departure from the trysting-place, when the girls went to Hillcrest to indulge in the inevitable Saturday afternoon sundae, they were served by a gray-haired stranger, who wore Leslie’s coat with ease, but who looked unromantic in the extreme.