Sunday after Mid-Years. A grey biting February afternoon, with a promise of snow in the eager air, was darkening over the deserted campus. The examinations, which had finally dragged their slow length to an end on Friday, seemed to have left a peculiar haze in the mental atmosphere; for throughout the college, whence all who could possibly do so had departed for a brief rest, there was a subdued and slightly melancholy air, as though no one had yet realized that another four months must elapse before the agony of having her knowledge investigated would again rack mind and body.

Eleanor Mertoun, deep in the comfort of her cushioned window-seat, alternately mused on the contrast between her busy Thursday self and her lazy Sunday self, and wished for the return of her roommate, who was spending the Saturday and Sunday in Philadelphia. It was certainly the time and place in which to enjoy the retrospect of work done. The red glow of a quiet little coal fire in the grate mingled pleasantly with the fading cold light from without, and lit up warmly the dark green walls of the study, and its polished floor. An antique oval mirror in a dull old gilt frame dimly gave back the double of a graceful sword fern which spread its long fronds over the end of a well-filled bookcase below. Eleanor, being in a contemplative mood, stared hard at the fern and reflected that it toiled not and was very beautiful. Before she could go on to the philosophic consequences of her meditation, the door was swung open vigorously, and in came a tall figure in hat and ulster.

"Why, it's Marjorie Daw herself," exclaimed Eleanor, springing up to greet the longed-for roommate. "I thought you weren't coming back till to-morrow? You're just in time to save me from acute melancholia, but I can't believe you had any premonition of that!"

"I'm gefrohren—give me a cup of hot tea, for the love of—Me, and then I'll tell you," answered Marjorie Conyngham, as she threw off hat and coat, sat down on the rug by the hearth, and held out both hands towards the fire.

Eleanor dashed out to fill the kettle, and soon had a steaming cup and a "jammed" cracker ready for Marjorie. Then she put a "Busy" sign on the outside of the door to guard against too attentive friends on borrowing bent, sat down beside the newcomer, clasped her hands around her knees, and commanded, "Go on."

"I had an unusual and severe attack of piety that prevented me from cutting Pol. Econ. in the morning. It was brought on, I think, by the idea of having to copy six pages of lecture notes on the social state of the indigent Indians."

Eleanor interrupted her. "Oh, I don't in the least care what brought you, now that you're here. I meant, I want to know all about the Atkinsons, what you did and said,—and how many times you upset your glass at table."

Marjorie passed over this insulting thrust, and irrelevantly remarked: "Isn't it a pleasant thought that exam. time is over, and so Betty Hall no longer goes down the corridor warbling 'Earth is my resting place, Heaven is my home,' or 'I'm a pilgrim and I'm a stranger, I can tarry, I can tarry but a night'?"

Eleanor laughed at the remembrance. "It is, surely. Poor old Betty! Doesn't she suffer more from the fear of being flunked out than any upper-classman you ever saw?—and she makes elaborate preparations for going home at every exam. time. But come back from this digression and stick to the manuscript. Marge, conversationally you're a tramp!"

"About the Atkinsons? They're very well, thank you.—Oh, don't break my head with the tongs and I will be good! I have a lovely tale to tell you, really, Eleanor. I met a man——"

"Impossible!" interjected Eleanor.

"Who's digressing now?" demanded Marjorie.

A meek small voice from the gathering darkness said "Little Ellie," and then Marjorie went on; "a man whom you know quite well in the general if not in the particular—a handsome, well-groomed, middle-aged man with iron grey hair, serenest confidence in his own judgment and estimate of things, and—here you may perceive the rub, Lee—unconquerable prejudice against the essentially modern woman—in the abstract."

"Ah!" breathed Eleanor, scenting the battle from afar.

"In the concrete, I confess, she shows him to be 'not impregnable as a bulwark of archaism,' as Dr. Phillips would say." Marjorie was smiling at the fire, which was only half lighting the corner of the dim study. "Eleanor, from the moment that I first heard that man speak and open fire on the kind of thing the modern girl is going to become, I marked him for my prey. Oh! it was lovely," laughed she suddenly, rocking back and forth in an ecstasy of delighted amusement, "it was lovely to see the mighty fall."

"Do tell me how it happened! What did you use on the poor man?" asked the eager Eleanor.

"It wasn't force, hardly even force of argument. He did not know I was a Bryn Mawrtyr at first, and so he was led into jesting with me just as he would have with any mere society girl who was ready for badinage. When he fathomed my real character his face was an entertaining spectacle—a mixture of regret, astonishment, and—well,—annoyance, such as one is not always privileged to see. I saw he was preparing for driving me out of college by hot argument, so I got out my strategic tools and turned the conversation.

"You know we have threshed this all out before so many times, and raged to each other about the quarter of the population who take us, without looking, for mannish boarding-school girls, as empty-headed as the women of ten centuries ago, but more silly because we pretend to be what we are not; and about the other quarter, who look upon us as grinds and blue-stockings, star-gazers impossible and undesirable to touch with a pole of any length! This man had a smattering of both those ideas, and was—is—bringing up his daughter on principles impossible to classify. He told me all about his plans for her before I quite got the conversation turned from the explosive topic, and I feel sure the poor child will find herself an anachronism in ten years.

"I knew it would shock him fearfully if I talked politics; but besides being anxious to shake him up a bit, I really wanted to do battle with Mr. Atkinson (as usual) about England's policy in South Africa. And so I launched on that perilous undertaking, making as gallant a defence of Oom Paul and all Boerdom as I knew how. To my huge delight, the man (his name is Ballantyne) had to acknowledge that he disagreed with Mr. Atkinson and agreed with me! Point No. 1.

"Just then Teddy Atkinson began talking music. You know he is very enthusiastic—goes to the Symphony concerts, all the operas, and that sort of thing. He asked about the Glee Club at college, and wanted to know if I were still Leading-Grand-High-Soprano-in-Alt, or something equally foolish. You should have seen Mr. Ballantyne's face—looked as if he thought music and political science mutually exclusive terms. I plunged in at once and talked 'technical' all I knew how. Don't think me a horrid poseuse, Lee, though I was playing to the gallery in a way. I didn't pretend to very much more than I knew, and besides it was all a part of my deep-laid plot for bringing down that man."

"You! posing!" was Eleanor's sole comment. "Go on."

"You see my scheme? To let no subject of conversation escape; whether it was anything Mr. Ballantyne had ever heard of or not makes no difference. The point was to convince him, as thoroughly as was possible in one short evening, that I, in the character of college woman, was neither a bit of thistle-down nor a fearful prig. The next thing was—oh yes!—domestic affairs. Mrs. Atkinson, without knowing it, helped me immensely there. She began the topic, and though my knowledge of it was so theoretical that if I had been an angel I should have feared to tread on that subject, I rushed in. Fortunately, I had gathered enough information from running the house last summer while mother was away to talk without utter nonsense. I told them about the cook who said, when I went down and criticised some of the products of her skill: 'It's yersilf I'll set on the stove if yez do be afther interferin' in my bisnis!' And I thought Mr. Ballantyne's amusement rather excessive for one who disapproved so heartily of me and my college. Perhaps he took it as a welcome proof that I couldn't manage cooks. It proved a good transition anyway; for Mr. Atkinson was reminded of one of his delicious stories, which made me think of some lovely tales we heard from Betty Hall and the frivolous-minded Dorothy at the fudge party after Philosophy exam. on Friday; and then of course the Ballantyne had one to tell, so that the table cheered up markedly. I could see now that he began to think me amusing if peculiar, and I gained an inch whenever I could.

"After that we went on talking about all sorts of things, for Teddy Atkinson couldn't have played better into my hands if he had been an accomplice, and suggested the most diverse known subjects. College settlement was closely followed by wireless telegraphy, yacht races, and golf, especially at the Merion Cricket Club; and though I had to be wary of terms sometimes when it came to the second and third, I didn't back down once—not once. Then Mr. Ballantyne and I had a bit of a talk together, in which I tried to introduce 'a current of new and fresh ideas' into his mind, and gently remove some others already there. I think his capitulation would have come very soon if he had stayed longer, for when he rose to go he said that he did not know whether he would find it best for his daughter to go to Bryn Mawr, but he hoped she would prove as many-sided as he had found a college woman might be. Wasn't that worth working hard for?"

Eleanor, leaning over and spanning Marjorie's forehead with her hands, murmured "Undue cerebral enlargement——"

"Lee—you idiot!" cried Marjorie, "do you imagine for one moment that I would have spent a laborious, uncomfortable, self-conscious evening to make any living person like me on my own account? I didn't care what Mr. Ballantyne thought of me—I wanted to make him like the college girl in me, and show him how utterly he was mistaken in his baseless notions of what college makes a woman."

Marjorie was roused now, and in earnest, and the light carelessness was gone out of her manner. Her wide grey eyes, Eleanor could see by the fire-glow, were shining with an eager light and her usually pale cheeks were richly flushed. She rose from the hearth rug, and leaning with one arm along the mantel, forcefully punctuated her words by tapping her finger-tips upon it.

"Lee," she said in her clear voice, "we're at a sort of crisis now, I think—not the same ring that there was, well, about twenty years ago, when the question was, shall women go to college? That has been answered, and the answer is, yes, because they will. But now there are quantities of people, just like Mr. Ballantyne who think the fact that women will do it adds a most unfortunate complexity to modern life; and the burden of proof that college is the right thing for us lies with us. I don't mean that we are to claim more for it than it can do, or pretend to more than we have, but to be so broad-spirited and alert and interested in everything, that we shall simply convince these people that college training is the best thing that ever happened to women—especially Bryn Mawr training. I'm going on a crusade against all infidels of the genus Ballantyne. Will you go along?"

Eleanor took Marjorie's outstretched hand and laid her other on her roommate's shoulder. "Of course I will, Marge, as far as I can. But I'm not capable like you, and can't do half——"

"Yes you are—yes you can," was Marjorie's confused answer. And she went on dilating upon Eleanor's being "a shark at Major English" and many other delightful things, until that embarrassed young woman sought a brief respite in a tour of investigation for the match box, an article of furniture which seemed bent upon disproving the theory of the conservation of matter, for it was rarely to be found. This evening, by some strange chance, it was discovered on the bookcase, and Eleanor seized it with alacrity. Just then it was useful to her as a diversion rather than as a light-producing agent, but she struck a match from it, lighted a candle, and handed it to Marjorie, saying, "There, take that and go to your room. Your hair looks frumpish with so much excitement, and if you don't hurry to do it you will be locked out, for the bell rang ages ago. Think what it would be to miss Sunday evening supper!"

Marjorie vanished behind the portiÈre and continued her flow of flattery, which Eleanor by singing "Ancient of Days," rendered inaudible. Then they discovered they had but one minute in which to get to the dining-room, and fled down the corridor with other late stragglers to reach the goal of their desires before a dark and cruel hand should bar them thence.

Marjorie's cause could have found no better champion, no one more fitted to illustrate her theory of the influence of college training on women, than herself. She was one of those healthy inspiring people, becoming ever more numerous especially among college women, who do everything well, if not all things equally well; and who show how invaluable is the discipline which has given them largeness of view and a certain ready grasp of affairs often lacking in those who have missed the same training. She saw life steadily, this senior of twenty-two, (though she could not as yet see it whole) and therefore she was neither scatter-brained nor priggish. The ideals of balance, proportion, symmetry, self-control, had been growing clear and attractive to her all her four years, but they had crystallized in her thought only in the last.

As she had said to Eleanor, they had "threshed it all out before," and the occasion of their so doing had been this:

Marjorie, aspirant for athletic as well as academic and social success, practiced basket-ball at every opportunity; and after winning her class numerals by playing as substitute in a match game in junior year, was in a fair way to make the senior team. One rainy November afternoon, Marjorie, in default of an outdoor game, was throwing and catching ball in the gymnasium with the senior captain and a junior. As she ran across the floor after a muffed ball (which brought down upon her much reviling by the captain) she noticed a spellbound freshman standing in the doorway—a freshman whom she knew slightly. It was a friend's friend whom Marjorie had been asked, as upper classmen are every year, to "look up"; and when she had done so had found a rather repressive young person, of serious-minded intent to study, and do nothing else. When Marjorie saw her "little freshman friend," as Eleanor called Marian Coale, with her eyes glued to the white numerals on Marjorie's dark basket-ball suit, she nodded to her, and later, when they all stopped playing, walked off with Marian, as she had to stop at Radnor Hall, where the latter lived.

"I didn't know you played basket-ball," the freshman had said suddenly.

"Too awkward?" asked Marjorie with a quizzical expression in her shining grey eyes. "Or a weakling—which?"

The freshman was visibly embarrassed. "I didn't mean that, you know," she stammered, "but I didn't think you belonged to the set that cares for—that sort of thing." She was gaining confidence now, and went on somewhat loftily, "It's rather a waste of time, don't you think? just as so many teas and plays and things of that sort are. I think we come here to work." She glanced at the senior stealthily as she delivered this startling opinion, and was a little annoyed to find her smiling broadly.

"Of course that's what we come here for," cried Marjorie, "but you'll find that you do your work about forty times better if you do something else as well." Then she had spent a few moments expounding her views to the serious-minded freshman, leaving her slightly bewildered and semi-convinced that there were some things she had not fathomed in her month of college life.

Marjorie had met before several girls who had gone through and out of college with similar aims; but she had not found the type a prevailing one, for, happily, at Bryn Mawr there exists not only strong adherence to the high intellectual standard, but likewise a healthy tendency towards general culture and breadth of interests. Marian Coale was one of that minority whose ideal is only knowledge, not wisdom. She bade fair to become a bookworm—of high order, it is true, but yet a bookworm, and a bookworm, as a factor in life, is, by common consent, less desirable, admirable, and useful than a woman.

Marjorie's attack upon her theories, coming as it did from so well recognized a student, was from the right quarter, and was well-timed to give the freshman a new outlook even in her first year. "I hope I didn't inculcate too much frivolity," said Marjorie as she was telling Eleanor of this rencontre. "I tried to make her see that I did not mean quite being a Jack-at-all-trades, and missing the kernel of college by running every organization to the exclusion of lectures. But I toiled to show her that the opposite sort of mistake is nearly as fatal in the end. I am hopeful of having her try to make the Glee Club, and perhaps write for the 'Philistine'! If she turns out a swan in the literary line shan't I deserve a vote of thanks from the editorial board?"

"You won't get it unless you warn Caroline Brandes beforehand that 'M. C.' signed to any copy means Marian Coale as author and Marge Conyngham as inspirer and motive power," answered Eleanor in her dry unsmiling way. "What started you ramping like a lion against the greasy grinds, Marjorie Daw?"

"I shouldn't have done it before the end of senior year anyway, Lee, and probably not then if I had not come across so very inviting a grind as Marian. You see she is one of the Coales of Hampstead, who are friends of the Dorsets, and so I have heard of her very often. There is so much possibility for all sorts of fine things in her that I can't bear to see her shutting everything but one out of her life, even though that one be books. Be a good friend to her, Lee, by showing her that even the president of Self-Government and the next European Fellow——"

Eleanor's strong hand shut off Marjorie's speech, for not even by her roommate would she suffer her chances for carrying off this, the highest of undergraduate honours, to be discussed. She now informed Marjorie that if she wished to go on telling about her schemes for Relieving Socially Indigent Freshmen, she (Lee) would listen with joy; but approaches to any other topic would be instantly punished. And so Marjorie returned to her tale.

It was À propos of this episode that Marjorie and Eleanor had "threshed it all out," as the former said in discussing Mr. Ballantyne; and during the process had been half-formed in Marjorie's mind the idea which, though growing slowly during the long winter, reached its full maturity only later when warmed and ripened by that gentleman's noble rage against women's colleges. Marjorie saw that her crusade must be carried on both within college and beyond its peaceful campus. "You see, Eleanor," she said, "all the Marian Coales in the freshman class (I am afraid it is too late to work with hardened upperclassmen) ought to be given a good broad point of view on the question of what they are to get out of college: and then all the Ballantynes in the world outside are to be convinced that such a point of view exists—is more common than they think. What gives me most hope about the second half of the work is that the Ballantynes of the world are nearly always people who have met no college women, or few and unfortunate specimens of the race."

With a strong sense of the need of instructing people of the Coale and the Ballantyne type in the way they should go, Marjorie began her last Semester in college. That, however, was only one of a number of conflicting ideas behind that broad, white brow of hers. For a senior's last Semester, by reason of her desire to do her remaining work at least well enough to merit that coveted title of Bachelor of Arts, and her intention to spend more time than she has hitherto spent with the soon-scattered members of the dear old class, (tramping with them about the country to the Gulph, Valley Forge, and the Red Rose Inn, or gathering congenial spirits about the hospitable chafing-dish)—by reason of all this, a senior's second Semester is a time of great physical activity and some confusion of mind. Marjorie worked indefatigably at her beloved political science, took part enthusiastically in Sheridan's Critic when that delightful drama was given for the benefit of the College Settlement Chapter, and when basket-ball training began in mid-March, cheerfully forswore all sweet things and "eating between meals," that she might, when the time came for the inter-class match games, help to win the silver lantern for the class of ——.

And as she worked and played her thoughts were never far from the crusade she and Eleanor had undertaken. They told no one of their efforts, but they were often amused by the way in which their friends unconsciously forwarded their plans. Carroll Mayo, dubbed by Marjorie the "Versatile Virginian," was a gallant supporter; for though her record for scholarship was not so high even as Marjorie's, it was high enough not to be despised by the respecters of intellect only, in estimating her total strength. As for her power in other directions, Carroll was considered by this somewhat remarkable group of seniors the best "all round" girl among them. If Marjorie chanced to have a guest of the Ballantyne type, (and it must be confessed that she laid traps for many such by inviting them to dine or have afternoon tea) she generally contrived that Carroll should sit on one side of him or her, and by her unconscious charm help Marjorie banish the prejudice that was waiting to be justified.

Then there were Betty Hall and Anne Aldridge, both of whom were excellent though unconscious abettors of Marjorie and Lee. Betty, in spite of the self-distrust that put her into a very real agony of apprehension whenever examinations stared her in the face, and caused her to announce beforehand that in a few short days she would be "flunked out," was no mean student; and ever since freshman days of Minor Latin had done clever work in the classics. She was likewise a good actor of what she called "heavy female parts," and the owner of a fund of most delightful stories.

And Anne? Everybody knew Anne. Underclassmen gazed upon her with awe and rapture—for was she not captain of the senior basket-ball team, whom as juniors she had led to the championship? Merry, kindly, black-eyed, sweet-tempered, saucy, loyal, unassuming Anne Aldridge, overflowing with infectious humour, and having a good word for every one—never was any one so justly popular as she. And to describe her yet further with a wild flight of far-fetched metaphor, she was one of the brightest jewels in the crown of the biology professor!

Less considerable than the help given the two crusaders by these three was that which Marjorie and Eleanor received from another unwitting senior—Kate Murray. Kate, if she had not been thrown with such girls as Marjorie, Eleanor, and her own roommate, Dorothy Van Dyke, might have turned out pure grind; but the constant contact with the good friends had bred in her a wholesome sense of the value of a well-rounded college experience. Now, in senior year, although she had at times to be forcibly dragged from work by the frivolous Dorothy, she was heard to deliver herself spontaneously of the opinion that people ought to play daily,—afternoon tea with the six, after a long tramp or basket-ball being preferred as the form that play was to take. And so when outside influence was used to make Kate take her own advice, she was an admirable example to the delinquent freshman Coale.

That clever young person whom Marjorie had found so problematical, was now, by the end of the second Semester, working herself out to a satisfactory solution. The slight change which had already, under the energetic training of Marjorie, taken place in her was remarked by many who had known her in her freshest freshman days, even though they did not know of the influence that had wrought it. She was more alert, more sympathetic than she had been when first the senior started her upon a course not laid down in the college program; but not being of an introspective nature, she was hardly conscious of the utter difference between her former and her present points of view.

Her attitude towards the question of the next European Fellow, (that annual earthquake whose rumblings so agitate the entire college with increasing violence until the shock of the final announcement rends it) was a delightful index to Marjorie of her own success in crusading, and of what she considered Marian's improved mental condition resulting therefrom. They talked it over, as do any two Bryn Mawr girls who are together for more than five minutes at this period of the year; and Marian, somewhat diffidently because she was a freshman talking of seniors, said she very much hoped that Carroll Mayo would be the choice of the Faculty. Why? Oh, because she was the sort of person the college might for every reason be proud to have represent it at a foreign university.

Didn't she think other people were as promising candidates? Marjorie had inquired. Oh, yes, but personally she wanted to see a girl as charming and as "all-round" as Carroll win. She thought Eleanor Mertoun another great person for the honour,—supposed Kate Murray had a show, but she wasn't very enthusiastic about her.

In the meantime, the senior class, with the best possible right, was in a state of ferment that was not to be relieved save by the knowledge of which one of them was chosen for such well-nigh crushing honour. As March advanced, all other topics of conversation at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, during long walks, or strolls about the campus on the way to lectures, or from the athletic field, were relegated to the forgotten corners of the mental attic; and "who do you think will have the fellowship?" was the incessant question.

When the bulletin boards at last displayed the announcement that all the students were requested to come to chapel on Tuesday morning, March 20th, like a leaping prairie fire spread the news that the European Fellow's name was to be made public. At once discussion waxed the more violent, that every one might say all she thought before the need for speculation in regard to the chosen one should be past. Monday afternoon, when the final Faculty meeting for deciding the matter was in progress, was spent by the senior class in a state of restlessness that kept them vibrating in a distracted manner between that portion of the campus immediately under the windows of the President's office (as though forsooth any information could trickle, like a welcome stream, down to the thirsty ones below) and the rooms of different members of the class who were so fortunate as to live facing that august building where the fate of several people was being decided. Pembroke East, being nearest Taylor was the favourite place for these indoor gatherings, and Marjorie's and Eleanor's study, which faced the President's office windows, was filled with a constantly changing crowd of eager seniors. In the course of the afternoon, practically every one in the class was suggested; for human nature, in such cases, does not thoroughly like being surprised, and there was abroad a hardly culpable longing to be able to say, "I told you so," in case some dark horse should prove the winner. When the Faculty meeting was over, they knew would come, in some mysterious manner, the official notice from the Secretary of the Faculty to the chosen candidate. Then, in accordance with a wise provision which prevents the spontaneous combustion of the new-made fellow, she might tell one of her friends. And every one longed to be sharer in the secret that was to be kept over-night.

As it happens every year, so too when the class of —— were seniors, the efforts at discovering the recipient of the Faculty note failed utterly, and all but two seniors were therefore ignorant of the long-desired name when the morning came on which the public announcement was to be made. Speculation was rife, and breakfast, contrary to its usual sleepy moroseness, was nearly as animated and "discussive" (Marjorie's word) as dinner was prone to be.

At last Taylor bell begins to ring for chapel, and hardly has the first stroke melted into the clanging monotone of the succeeding ones when on all sides is displayed an unwonted eagerness for attending divine service (not compulsory). From every hall flow long lines of students, the black gowns of the more eager ones streaming straight out behind them in the fresh March wind, like Alice's hair when the Red Queen ran with her "faster! faster!" Followed by the slower comers, they hurry into Taylor, up the staircase and into the chapel. There they scatter to the excited though somewhat subdued groups that occupy the sections set apart by unwritten law for different classes. In the middle front writhes the senior class, forgetful of its usual stony impassiveness in the face of anxiety. They are excited, for is it not one of themselves that has been chosen? They are supported on the left by the loyal juniors, who, because they have known the Fellow (whoever she may be) three years, longer than any other class in college, are in turn justly thrilled. The right flank is held by the devoted sophomore class, excited because those from among whom the Fellow comes were once their champions, when in freshman year they needed such. And behind the choir, which is the rearguard of the seniors, sit the freshmen, excited because they have never before come within hailing distance of the honour.

The clock is anxiously watched as the hands approach, oh! so slowly, towards 8:45. Every probable, nay possible, candidate is being pierced to the soul from all sides with glances compared to which a hawk's would be careless and cursory. Now and again the wave of whispering and laughter rises suddenly, until some conscience-pricked proctor silences the throng. It begins again—a low bubbling noise that is alive with anxious, suppressed excitement, and that threatens to engulf the decorous Chapel in the rise of its un-religious tide.

The nervous twisting about to survey the crowd, the buzz of talk, the ripple of laughter, cease suddenly. Then as the President and the College Preacher, in their academic robes, enter the two upper doors and ascend the platform, the mass rises, and led by the choir breaks into a vigorous processional hymn. Then very quiet is the room while the words of the strong King David are read, and it is only when the last sentence of the prayer brings the students upright that the excitement breaks forth again.

Across the rustle of readjustment, subduing it momentarily as a great wind flattens the waves for an instant only to toss them the more wildly, comes the voice of the President.

"Before we come to speak of the purpose for which we are gathered here this morning," she begins, her smile expressing perfect appreciation of the suspense that racks her audience, "I should like to make some announcements of general interest to the students." The strained attention of her hearers all over the Chapel breaks in hardly audible catches of the breath. Those unheard announcements give time for further speculation as to the candidate. Marjorie is eagerly leaning forward, too impatient-looking for one who knows the Thing—so it can't be Eleanor, decide the sagest critics. Kate Murray is abnormally flushed, Carroll correspondingly pale. It must be Carroll—she looks so subdued—so unexcited.

Those announcements are over. The President unfolds an innocent-looking bit of paper. The honour list of ten, from whom the Fellow has been chosen, is read. "Is it she?" is the tacit question of the crowd at each name. Then——

"The decision has been difficult," says the President impressively. "After long and earnest discussion the Faculty has nominated to the Board of Trustees, as European Fellow for the coming year——"

A pause. The weighted silence seems to stifle one.

"Eleanor Whitcomb Mertoun!"

A roar shatters the air—or is it the roof?—a shout of generous gladness mingled with the hearty clamour of hand and heel. The pent-up eagerness to know is changed into the longing to honour the chosen candidate, and it bursts forth and swirls tumultuously about Eleanor like the Fundy tide. It rises, falls, rises again, twenty feet at a leap.

Marjorie is meantime pounding Eleanor's knee, and exclaiming to every one within reach, "I knew it! I knew it!" as though some especial credit were due her for having been told the secret. Kate Murray, on the other side, was dragging Eleanor down by the neck, as if she would unseat from its firm base the head whose market value had risen 100% in five minutes.

Decorum returns for a moment when the President dismisses the students with the request that they sing the college hymn; and they sing it as can only those that have felt the "gracious inspiration" of our "Mistress and Mother." When it is over, there is a rush for Lee Mertoun from all sides, for it is de rigueur to shake the new Fellow's hand very nearly to the maiming of that revered member. For ten minutes she clasps hands, hardly recognizing their owners in the press; and then gradually, as the bell rings for first lectures, the crowd melts out of the chapel.

As Lee, Marjorie, Kate, and Carroll left the room Marjorie ran her arm through that of the warm and red recipient of blushing honours and facing her quickly about, pointed tragically with her pen at the almost deserted confusion of chairs helplessly awry.

"There, woman," she said, "a picture of that might with great plausibility be labelled 'Charleston after the Earthquake.' That is all your fault, and it is what you have got to live up to."

Eleanor laughed. "If that were all!" she said.

"You are right—there is more," retorted Marjorie, putting her own construction upon Eleanor's words. "You have to live this thing down as well as live up to it. And that means you will have to work hard to convince the infidels that you are still in the crusade, and that you stand for something besides the midnight oil. Now if you have yourself well in hand after all this agitation, let's go to Latin." So the four seniors wended their way through the small groups that were still "talking it over," Marjorie declaring that she simply must cut her own lecture and go with Lee to Major Latin, in order to see how to treat a Fellow.

As they passed into Room E closing the door behind them with the peculiarly irritating, undecided rattle that particular door always gives, suspended animation woke again in the lingering underclassmen, who had ceased their talk to gaze after the person who had suddenly become a Personage in the college world. A knot of freshmen talked in low tones.

"Marian Coale is embittered for life because Marjorie didn't get it," suggested one teasingly.

"I'm not," protested the literal-minded accused. "Marjorie doesn't deserve it——"

"Tut, tut, how disloyal!" murmured the tease.

"—so far as scholarship is concerned," she finished.

"What else would you base the choice upon?" was the astonished inquiry from another.

"That is the first thing to consider, of course; but it is not all." And Marian waxed eloquent upon the subject of the ideal European Fellow.

"Who told you all this?" asked she of the insatiable desire to annoy, when Marian paused. "You didn't have it with you when you came to college."

Marian's dark face reddened. "I am learning a few things in college," was the slow answer. "One is to value something beside pure intellect, and to estimate people at more than the amount of grey matter they happen to possess."

This was quite true. Marian's face-about was a matter of great astonishment to the few who had known her at all well when she entered. Most of them traced the change to her friendship with Marjorie, but no one, least of all Marian herself, suspected that design on the part of the senior had brought it about.

As to Marjorie, she hardly believed in the transformation of the freshman, and kept furtively watching her convert for some signs of flagging energy. But watch as she might she never saw in Marian any indications of departure from the way into which she had been drawn. As the spring advanced, and one was greeted upon going out of doors with the faint, exhilarating scent of new-sprung grass, and the sight of a green patch, like the broadcast promise of the prodigal summer, here and there on the brown campus, Marjorie began to feel that the first part of the "crusade" she had placed before herself that February day had been carried out.

The second part, which concerned the extra-college world of men and women she had in the meantime not neglected. Here, her efforts, though not confined to Mr. Ballantyne, were yet centred in him. She dated her spring, as do most Bryn Mawrtyrs, by the changes in field and tree, but in this particular year she counted time also by her progress with the "genus Ballantyne," and especially with him from whom it took its name. In the time of cherry blossoms, when the black old trunks flung over them a white splendour woven by the wind and the sun, she had broken through the outer wall of prejudice that had been so weakened by her first attack. When the wind began to whirl from the apple-trees the full-blown petals, she felt that she was actually gaining ground, and faster than she had hoped; and when finally the daisies whitened the country-side, Marjorie received proof of complete triumph.

This pleasant reward for the labour of a Semester came to Marjorie one Saturday afternoon in the latter half of May. The days had been warm and, as the work piled up in its inevitable way towards the end of the year, wearisome also. Dorothy Van Dyke, to celebrate the passing of the week, persuaded Kate Murray that they two should give a "Ball" to the other five under the big cherry-tree by Pembroke West. So it came about that lemonade flowed freely there that afternoon, and every one of the seven friends returning from a shopping expedition in town, from work, or what not, was welcomed to rugs, cushions and the cool clink of ice under the hospitable boughs. Marjorie was there, of course, helping every one in her own particularly helpful way. It was restful, sitting there in the golden-green afternoon shadows, while the breath of the lilacs drifted along to them with the lazy air. The beauty of it all silenced the little group more than once, and their love for campus and halls rose breast-high—throat-high, and choked them oddly as they thought of going away.

Dear grey, ivy-clad halls! curtained in April with rich, tender green that is pierced to the heart with glorious sunlight, and that undulates, rippling, in the sweet spring wind; reddened by your vines that burn, lit by the sunset, in October; standing bare, proudly silent when the shouting north wind whirls the white snow about you; roofed with silver when the high moon dapples the grey road with the soft dim shadows of your trees; stately but never cold, always beautiful and beloved; if you but set upon your children as they go forth from you (groping their way because their eyes are clouded) your hallmarks of strong intellect, high honour, broad sympathy, and quick insight—who of all AlmÆ Matres may more truly rejoice in her noble race than Bryn Mawr?

A mood of contemplation could not but soon pass with such a group. The irrepressible Dorothy shattered it now.

"Here's a man coming up the walk," she announced. "Does he belong to any of you? Daughter is with him."

Every one turned to see if he "belonged" to her, and Marjorie seized Lee's arm as she recognized the stately figure.

"Mr. Ballantyne—and Louise. What do you think that means, Lee?"

"Suppose you go to find out," suggested Eleanor. "He probably wants to see you at all events." And Marjorie went.

When she came back half an hour later, after showing the delighted father and daughter as much about college as was possible at that unpropitious time of day, her face was glowing with pleasure.

"Marge," called Dorothy, as she came running across the grass from where she had been speeding the parting guests, "we've decided to cut dinner and stay out here until it's time for the Glee Club to sing on the steps."

"Jolly," answered Marjorie, "who cares for dinner anyway?" She dropped down beside Eleanor and seized her firmly by the shoulder. "Lee Mertoun, Mr. Ballantyne brought Louise out to see her future Alma Mater. She goes to Miss Stevens's school next fall for the last two years of prep. work—then here to college. Was denkst du?"

Eleanor clapped her hands delightedly. "Good work, Marge! I knew it would come about. Why, at this rate there won't be any of the genus left in the city of Philadelphia—not an infidel to crusade on——"

Betty Hall's voice broke across the stream of congratulation. "Of course, Carroll, I wouldn't mention it to her, but I think it shows just a little lack of breeding to discuss something we know nothing about!"

The laugh that followed this expansive hint was joined in by Marjorie and Lee.

"Do tell them about the crusade, Marjorie. It is time now, I think, especially as you have met the enemy and made him yours, poetically speaking. You don't know how I have been burdened by this ghastly secret!"

And while the sun sank and the shadows melted into the one deepening shadow we call twilight, and the circling bats flickered against the sky, Marjorie told of the problem that had presented itself to her that winter, and of her plans and efforts for its solution.

"Of course," she finished, "I don't mean to have it take all my time. There are other things more important, and besides it is not the sort of thing that can be done by constant conscious effort. But it seems to me so very well worth while to convince people at large of the value of college training, that I am willing to go out of my way sometimes to do it. And if we are going to do it, we have got to take care that we are broad and sympathetic, and not merely 'cold, learned, dehumanized'——"

By senior year one's friends never let one's statements go unchallenged. Kate Murray as might have been expected, now took up the case for a hypothetical defendant.

"I don't agree with you at all, Marjorie. That's a one-sided way of looking at the matter. You leave out of account, absolutely, the point of view of the people who devote their lives to one particular side of intellectual work, and accomplish the greatest masterpieces of the world. Specialization is the only thing that brings about great results in many cases; and where would be the great works that are above the horrible level of mediocrity, if your doctrine of—of—universal versatility (stop giggling. I'm not trying to be poetic or funny either) were accepted by everybody?"

"See here, Kate," broke in Carroll, "it's you that are getting one-sided now. I see what Marjorie is after and I think she is quite right. Getting bloodless and thin-lipped is one of the dangers of the college woman."

Anne Aldridge's quick voice answered Carroll.

"That's all very well for the world at large, Carroll, but I think Kate has made a very good point in bringing up the case of the great minds of the world. I believe that genius is 'an unlimited capacity for hard work' in more cases than you think. Now if people who have power of that sort should let themselves be turned aside by a desire to be open to impressions from all sides, the world would certainly be the loser by it. I haven't genius even of the hard work description, and so I shall never deny myself the pleasure of as much of your society as I can get, merely to go on pegging away at the regeneration of the pharynx of the earthworm! But if anybody has the power of doing something really great, for the world's sake, don't preach versatility to that person. There are few enough of us that can add to the sum of knowledge."

"That's a part of what I mean, Anne," struck in Marjorie eagerly. "There are few of us that can do that, but there are quantities of people who will never be able to do more than grind, and who yet abstract themselves from the world of actual life as though they were hermit geniuses. I say they have no right to do it, and that they owe as much to their fellows as to their own brains. Don't you see that the existence of such people among us is what gives people like Mr. Ballantyne their opportunity to misjudge the college woman? I've thought a good deal about both sides of this, and I think I have good grounds for carrying on what Lee and I have called, rather as a joke, our crusade. Please don't misunderstand me to mean that the women of really great intellectual power are to let their remarkable work be interfered with by turning that power aside to every little thing."

"So far as we ourselves are concerned," said Kate, "I think we may agree with you, Marjorie; for probably none of us is a genius except our European Fellow—of course she is. And so if we may be allowed to let alone all those bearing the marks of genius, we may join the crusade too. I am willing anyway to help in the attack on the large and flourishing Ballantyne species, and convince it that not all college women consist solely of massive intellect."

"And I too," said Anne.

"So am I," came from each of the others.

"Good children," said Marjorie gaily, as she threw an arm across the shoulders of Anne and of Kate, on either side of her. It was all she said but her satisfaction was deep.

Silence fell among them as it will when good friends sit together. A late robin-song floated over to them from the apple-trees. The evening star, like a sanctuary lamp, swung above the dying altar-fire of the sunset. The cool, nameless fragrance of a spring night filled the air. There under the old cherry-tree sat the seven with no word, until at last the silence was broken by snatches of melody, vague talking, and the laughter from strolling groups. Then, drawn back from their dreaming, they rose and went away to join the singing on the senior steps.

Edith Campbell Crane, 1900.