The next morning it poured.

“Of course,” said Eleanor Watson impressively at breakfast. “It always does the first day of college. They call it the freshman rain.”

“Let’s all go down to chapel together,” suggested Rachel Morrison.

“You’re going to order carriages, of course?” inquired Roberta Lewis stiffly.

“Hurrah! Another joke for the grind-book,” shrieked Mary Brooks. Then she noticed Roberta’s expression of abject terror. “Never mind, Miss Lewis,” she said kindly. “It’s really an honor to be in the grind-book, but I promise not to tell if you’d rather I wouldn’t. Won’t you show that you forgive me by coming down to college under my umbrella?”

“She can’t. She’s coming with me,” answered Nan promptly. “I demand the right to first choice.”“Very well, I yield,” said Mary, “because when you go my sovereignty will be undisputed. You’ll have to hurry, children.”

So the little procession of rain-coats flapping out from under dripping umbrellas started briskly off to join the longer procession that was converging from every direction toward College Hall. Roberta and Nan were ahead under one umbrella, chatting like old friends.

“I suppose she doesn’t think we’re worth talking to,” said Rachel Morrison, who came next with Betty.

“Probably she’s one of the kind that’s always been around with grown people and isn’t used to girls,” suggested Betty.

“Perhaps,” agreed Rachel. “Anyhow, I can’t get a word out of her. She just sits by her window and reads magazines and looks bored to death when Katherine or I go in to speak to her. Isn’t Katherine jolly? I’m so glad I don’t room alone.”

“Are you?” asked Betty. “I can tell better after my roommate comes. Her name sounds quite nice. It’s Helen Chase Adams, and she lives somewhere up in New Hampshire. Did you ever see so many girls?”There seemed to be no end to them. They jostled one another good-naturedly in the narrow halls, swarmed, chattering, up the stairs, and filled the chapel to overflowing. It was very exciting to see the whole college together. Even Roberta Lewis condescended to look interested when Mary Brooks showed her the faculty rows, and pointed out the college beauty, the captain of the sophomore basket-ball team, and other local celebrities.

“That’s evidently a freshman,” declared Eleanor Watson, who was in the row behind with Katherine and the Riches. “Doesn’t she look lost and unhappy?” And she pointed out a tall, near-sighted girl who was stalking dejectedly down the middle aisle.

A vivacious little brunette was sitting next Eleanor. “Pardon me,” she said sweetly, “but did you mean the girl who’s gone around to the side and is now being received with open arms by most of the faculty? She’s a senior, the brightest girl in the class, we think, and she’s sad because she’s lost her trunk and broken her glasses. You’re a freshman, I judge?”

“Thank you, yes,” gasped Eleanor with as much dignity as she could muster, and resolved to keep her guesses to herself in future.

The chapel service was short but very beautiful. The president’s kindly welcome to the entering class, “which bids fair to be the largest in the history of the institution,” completely upset the composure of some of the aforesaid class, and a good many moist handkerchiefs grew moister, and red eyes redder during the prayer. But on the whole the class of 190- conducted itself with commendable propriety and discretion on this its first official appearance in the college world.

“I’m glad I don’t have that French exam.,” said Katherine, as she and Betty picked out their umbrellas from a great, moist heap in the corner of the hall. “Come down with me and have a soda.”

Betty shook her head. “I can’t. Nan asked me to go with her and Eth–I mean Miss Hale, but I simply must study.” And she hurried off to begin.

At the entrance to the campus Eleanor Watson overtook her. “Let’s go home and study together,” she proposed. “I can’t see why they left this French till so late in the week, when everybody has it. What did you come to college for?” she asked abruptly.

Betty thought a minute. “Why, for the fun of it, I guess,” she said.

“So did I. I think we’ve stumbled into a pretty serious-minded crowd at Mrs. Chapin’s, don’t you?”

“I like Miss Morrison awfully well,” objected Betty, “and I shouldn’t call Katherine Kittredge of Kankakee serious-minded, but—”

“Oh, perhaps not,” interrupted Eleanor. “Anyhow I know a lot of fine girls outside, and you must meet them. It’s very important to have a lot of friends up here. If you want to amount to anything, you can’t just stick with the girls in your own house.”

“Oh, no,” said Betty meekly, awed by the display of worldly wisdom. “It will be lovely to meet your friends. Let’s study on the piazza. I’ll get my books.”

“Wait a minute,” said Eleanor quickly. “I want to tell you something. I have at least two conditions already, and if I don’t pass this French I don’t suppose I can possibly stay.”“But you don’t act frightened a bit,” protested Betty in awestruck tones.

“I am,” returned Eleanor in a queer, husky voice. “I could never show my face again if I failed.” She brushed the tears out of her eyes. “Now go and get your books,” she said calmly, “and don’t ever mention the subject again. I had to tell somebody.”

Betty was back in a moment, looking as if she had seen a ghost. “She’s come,” she gasped, “and she’s crying like everything.”

“Who?” inquired Eleanor coolly.

“My roommate–Helen Chase Adams.”

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t say a word–just grabbed up my books and ran. Let’s study till Nan comes and then she’ll settle it.”

It was almost one o’clock before Nan appeared. She tossed a box of candy to the weary students, and gave a lively account of her morning, which had included a second breakfast, three strawberry-ices, a walk to the bridge, half a dozen calls on the campus, and a plunge in the swimming-tank.

“I didn’t dream I knew so many people here,” she said. “But now I’ve seen them all and they’ve promised to call on you, Betty, and I must go to-night.”

“Not unless she stops crying,” said Betty firmly, and told her story.

“Go up and ask her to come down-town with us and have a lunch at Holmes’s,” suggested Nan.

“Oh you come too,” begged Betty, and Nan, amused at the distress of her usually self-reliant sister, obediently led the way up-stairs.

“Come in,” called a tremulous voice.

Helen Chase Adams had stopped crying, at least temporarily, and was sitting in a pale and forlorn heap on one of the beds. She jumped up when she saw her visitors. “I thought it was the man with my trunk,” she said. “Is one of you my roommate? Which one?”

“What a nice speech, Miss Adams!” said Nan heartily. “I’ve been hoping ever since I came that somebody would take me for a freshman. But this is Betty, who’s to room with you. Now will you come down-town to lunch with us?”

Betty was very quiet on the way down-town. Her roommate was a bitter disappointment. She had imagined a pretty girl like Eleanor Watson, or a jolly one like Katherine and Rachel; and here was this homely little thing with an awkward walk, a piping voice, and short skirts. “She’ll just spoil everything,” thought Betty resentfully, “and it’s a mean, hateful shame.” Over the creamed chicken, which Nan ordered because it was Holmes’s “specialty,” just as strawberry-ice was Cuyler’s, the situation began to look a little more cheerful. Helen Chase Adams would certainly be an obliging roommate.

“Oh, I wouldn’t think of touching the room till you get back from your French,” she said eagerly. “Won’t it be fun to fix it? Have you a lot of pretty things? I haven’t much, I’m afraid. Oh, no, I don’t care a bit which bed I have.” Her shy, appealing manner and her evident desire to please would have disarmed a far more critical person than Betty, who, in spite of her love of “fine feathers” and a sort of superficial snobbishness, was at heart absolutely unworldly, and who took a naive interest in all badly dressed people because it was such fun to “plan them over.” She applied this process immediately to her roommate.

“Her hat’s on crooked,” she reflected, “and her pug’s in just the wrong place. Her shirt-waist needs pulling down in front and she sticks her head out when she talks. Otherwise she’d be rather cute. I hope she’s the kind that will take suggestions without getting mad.” And she hurried off to her French in a very amiable frame of mind.

Helen Chase Adams thanked Nan shyly for the luncheon, escaped from the terrors of a tÊte-À-tÊte with an unfamiliar grown-up on the plea of having to unpack, and curled up on the couch that Betty had not chosen, to think it over. The day had been full of surprises, but Betty was the culmination. Why had she come to college? She was distinctly pretty, she dressed well, and evidently liked what pretty girls call “a good time.” In Helen Chase Adams’s limited experience all pretty girls were stupid. The idea of seeing crowds of them in the college chapel, much less of rooming with one, had never entered her head. A college was a place for students. Would Miss Wales pass her examination? Would she learn her lessons? What would it be like to live with her day in and day out? Helen could not imagine–but she did not feel in the least like crying.

Just as the dinner-bell rang, Betty appeared, looking rather tired and pale. “Nan’s gone,” she announced. “She found she couldn’t make connections except by leaving at half past five, so she met me down at the college. And just at the last minute she gave me the money to buy a chafing-dish. Wasn’t that lovely? I know I should have cried and made a goose of myself, but after tha–I beg your pardon–I haven’t any sense.” She stopped in confusion.

But Helen only laughed. “Go on,” she said. “I don’t mind now. I don’t believe I’m going to be homesick any more, and if I am I’ll do my best not to cry.”

How the rest of that first week flew! Next day the freshman class list was read, and fortunately it included all the girls at Mrs. Chapin’s. Then there were electives to choose, complicated schedules to see through, first recitations to find, books to buy or rent, rooms to arrange, and all sorts of bewildering odds and ends to attend to. Saturday came before any one was ready for it, bringing in its wake the freshman frolic, a jolly, informal dance in the gymnasium, at which the whole college appears, tagged with its name, and tries to get accustomed to the size of the entering class, preparatory to becoming acquainted with parts of it later on. To Betty’s great delight Dorothy King met her in the hall of the Administration Building the day before and asked permission to take her to the frolic. At the gymnasium Miss King turned her over to a bewildering succession of partners, who asked her the stereotyped questions about liking college, having a pleasant boarding-place, and so on, tried more or less effectively to lead her through the crowd to the rather erratic music of one piano, and assured her that the freshman frolic was not at all like the other college dances. They all seemed very pleasant, but Betty felt sure she should never know them again. Nevertheless she enjoyed it all immensely and was almost sorry when the frolic was over and they adjourned to Dorothy’s pretty single room in the Hilton House, where a few other upper-class girls had been invited to bring their freshmen for refreshments.

“Wasn’t it fun?” said Betty to a fluffy-haired, dainty little girl who sat next her on Dorothy’s couch.

“I don’t think I should call it exactly fun,” said the girl critically.

“Oh, I like meeting new people, and getting into a crowd of girls, and trying to dance with them,” explained Betty.

“Yes, I liked it too,” said the girl. She had an odd trick of lingering over the word she wished to distinguish. “I liked it because it was so queer. Everything’s queer here, particularly roommates. Do you have one?”

Betty nodded. “Well, mine never made up her bed in her life before, and first she thought she couldn’t, but her mother told her to take hold and see what a Madison could do with a bed–they’re awfully proud of their old family–so she did; but it looks dreadfully messy yet, and it makes her late for chapel every single morning. Is yours anything like that?”

Betty laughed. “Oh, no,” she said. “She’s very orderly. Won’t you come and see us?”

The little freshman promised. By that time the “plowed field” was ready–an obliging friend had stayed at home from the frolic to give it an early start–and they ate the creamy brown squares of candy with a marshmallow stuffed into each, and praised the cook and her wares until a bell rang and everybody jumped up and began saying good-bye at once except Betty, who had to be enlightened by the campus girls as to the dire meaning of the twenty-minutes-to-ten bell.

“Don’t you keep the ten o’clock rule?” asked the fluffy-haired freshman curiously.

“Oh, yes,” said Betty. “Why, we couldn’t come to college if we didn’t, could we?” And she wondered why some of the girls laughed.

“I’ve had a beautiful time,” she said, when Miss King, who had come part way home with her, explained that she must turn back. “I hope that when I’m a junior I can do half as much for some little freshman as you have for me.”

“That’s a nice way to put it, Miss Wales,” said Dorothy. “But don’t wait till you’re a junior to begin.”

As Betty ran home, she reflected that she had not seen Helen dancing that evening. “Oh, Helen,” she called, as she dashed into the room, “wasn’t it fun? How many minutes before our light goes out? Do you know how to dance?”

Helen hesitated. “I–well–I know how, but I can’t do it in a crowd. It’s ten minutes of ten.”

“Teach you before the sophomore reception,” said Betty laconically, throwing a slipper into the closet with one hand and pulling out hairpins with the other. “What a pity that to-morrow’s Sunday. We shall have to wait a whole day to begin.”