“Sherlock Holmes” was quite as exciting as Miss Madison had anticipated. Most college plays, except the elaborate ones given in the gymnasium, which are carefully learned, costumed and rehearsed, and supervised by a committee from the faculty–are amusing little farces in one or two short scenes. “Sherlock Holmes,” on the other hand, was a four act, blood-curdling melodrama, with three different stage settings, an abundance of pistol shots, a flash-light fire, shrieks and a fainting fit on the part of the heroine, the raiding of a robbers’ den in the dÉnouement, and “a lot more excitement all through than there is in Mr. Gillette’s play,” as Mary modestly informed her caste. It was necessarily cruder, as it was far more ambitious, than the commoner sort of amateur play; but the audience, whether little freshmen who had seen few similar performances, or upper class girls who had seen a great many and so fully appreciated the novelty of this one, were wildly enthusiastic. Every actress, down to Helen, who made a very stiff and stilted “Buttons,” and Rachel and Mary Rich who appeared in the robbers’ den scene as Betty’s female accomplices, and in the heroine’s drawing-room as her wicked mother and her stupid maid respectively, was rapturously received; and Dr. Holmes and Sir Archibald, whose hat was decidedly the hit of the evening, were forced to come before the curtain. Finally, in response to repeated shouts for “author,” Mary Brooks appeared, flushed and panting from her vigorous exertions as prompter, stage manager, and assistant dresser, and informed the audience that owing to the kindness of Mrs. Chapin there was lemon-ice in the dining-room, and would every one please go out there, so that this awful mess,–with a comprehensive wave of her hand toward the ruins of the robbers’ den piled on top of the heroine’s drawing-room furniture, which in turn had been a rearrangment of Dr. Holmes’s study,–could be cleared up, and they could dance there later?

At this the audience again applauded, sighed to think that the play was over, and then joyfully adjourned to the dining-room to eat Mrs. Chapin’s ice and examine the actors at close range. All these speedily appeared, except Helen, who had crept up-stairs quite unnoticed the moment her part was finished, and Eleanor, who, hunting up Betty, explained that she had a dreadful headache and begged Betty to look after her guests and not for anything to let them come up-stairs to find her. Betty, who was busily washing off her “fierce frown” at the time, sputtered a promise through the mixture of soap, water and vaseline she was using, delivered the message, assured herself that the guests were enjoying themselves, and forgot all about Eleanor until half-past nine when every one had gone and she came up to her room to find Helen in bed and apparently fast asleep, with her face hidden in the pillows.

“How queer,” she thought. “She’s had the blues for a week, but I thought she was all right this evening.” Then, as her conjectures about Helen suggested Eleanor’s headache, she tiptoed out to see if she could do anything for the prostrate heroine.Eleanor’s transom was dark and her door evidently locked, for it would not yield when Betty, anxious at getting no answer to her knocks, tried to open it. But when she called softly, “Eleanor, are you there? Can I do anything?” Eleanor answered crossly, “Please go away. I’m better, but I want to be let alone.”

So, murmuring an apology, Betty went back to her own room, and as Helen seemed to be sound asleep, she saw no reason for making a nuisance of herself a second time, but considerately undressed in the dark and crept into bed as softly as possible.

If she had turned on her light, she would have discovered two telltale bits of evidence, for Helen had left a very moist handkerchief on her desk and another rolled into a damp, vindictive little wad on the chiffonier. It was not because she knew she had done her part badly that she had gone sobbing to bed, while the others ate lemon-ice and danced merrily down-stairs. Billy was a hard part; Mary Brooks had said so herself, and she had only taken it because when Roberta positively refused to act, there was no one else. Helen couldn’t act, knew she couldn’t, and didn’t much care. But not to have any friends in all this big, beautiful college–that was a thing to make any one cry. It was bad enough not to be asked anywhere, but not to have any friends to invite oneself, that was worse–it was dreadful! If she went right off up-stairs perhaps no one would notice; they would think at first that somebody else was looking after her guests while she dressed, and then they would forget all about her and never know the dreadful truth that nobody she had asked to the play would come.

When it had first been decided to present “Sherlock Holmes” and the girls had begun giving out their invitations, Helen, who felt more and more keenly her isolation in the college, resolved to see just how the others managed and then do as they did. She heard Rachel say, “I think Christy Mason is a dear. I don’t know her much if any, but I’m going to ask her all the same, and perhaps we shall get better acquainted after awhile.”

That made Helen, who took the speech more literally than it was meant, think of Caroline Barnes. One afternoon she and Betty had been down-town together, and on the way back Miss Barnes overtook them, and came up with them to see Eleanor, who was an old friend of hers. Betty introduced her to Helen and she walked between them up the hill and necessarily included both of them in her conversation. She was a homely girl, with dull, inexpressive features; but she was tall and well-proportioned and strikingly well dressed. Betty had taken an instant dislike to her at the time of their first meeting and greatly to Eleanor’s disgust had resisted all her advances. Eleanor had accused her frankly of not liking Caroline.

“No,” returned Betty with equal frankness, “I don’t. I think all your other friends are lovely, but Miss Barnes rubs me the wrong way.”

Helen knew nothing of all this, and Miss Barnes’s lively, slangy conversation and stylish, showy clothes appealed to her unsophisticated taste.

When the three parted at the head of the stairs, Miss Barnes turned back to say, “Aren’t you coming to see me? You owe me a call, you know.”Helen and Betty were standing close together, and though part of the remark applied only to Betty, she looked at them both.

Betty said formally, “Thank you, I should like to,” and Helen, pleased and eager, chorused, “So should I.”

Later, in their own room, Betty said with apparent carelessness but with the covert intention of dropping Helen a useful hint, “You aren’t going to see Miss Barnes, are you? I’m not.”

And Helen had flushed again, gave some stammering reply and then had had for the first time an unkind thought about her roommate. Betty wanted to keep all her nice friends to herself. It must be that. Why shouldn’t she go to see Miss Barnes? She wasn’t asked so often that she could afford to ignore the invitations she did get. And later she added, Why shouldn’t she ask Miss Barnes to the play, since Eleanor wasn’t going to?

So one afternoon Helen, arrayed in her best clothes, went down to call and deliver her invitation. Miss Barnes was out, but her door was open and Helen slipped in, and writing a little note on her card, laid it conspicuously on the shining mahogany desk.

That was one invitation. She had given the other to a quiet, brown-eyed girl who sat next her in geometry, not from preference, but because her name came next on the class roll. This girl declined politely, on the plea of another engagement.

Next day Miss Barnes brushed unseeingly past her in the hall of the Science Building. The day after that they met at gym. Finally, when almost a week had gone by without a sign from her, Helen inquired timidly if she had found the note.

“Oh, are you Miss Adams?” inquired Miss Barnes, staring past her with a weary air. “Thank you very much I’m sure, but I can’t come,” and she walked off.

Any one but Helen Adams would have known that Caroline Barnes and Eleanor Watson had the reputation of being the worst “snobs” in their class, and that Miss Ashby, her neighbor in geometry, boarded with her mother and never went anywhere without her. But Helen knew no college gossip. She offered her invitation to two girls who had been in the dancing-class, read hypocrisy into their hearty regrets that they were going out of town for Sunday, and asked no one else to the play. If she had been less shy and reserved she would have told Rachel or Betty all about her ill-luck, have been laughed at and sympathized with, and then have forgotten all about it. But being Helen Chase Adams, she brooded over her trouble in secret, asked nobody’s advice, and grew shyer and more sensitive in consequence, but not a whit less determined to make a place for herself in the college world.

She would have attached less significance to Caroline Barnes’s rudeness, had she known a little about the causes of Eleanor’s headache. Eleanor had gone down to Caroline’s on the afternoon of the play, knocked boldly, in spite of a “Don’t disturb” sign posted on the door, and found the pretty rooms in great confusion and Caroline wearily overseeing the packing of her books and pictures.

Eleanor waited patiently until the men had gone off with three huge boxes, and then insisted upon knowing what Caroline was doing.“Going home,” said Caroline sullenly.

“Why?” demanded Eleanor.

“Public reason–trouble with my eyes; real reason–haven’t touched my conditions yet and now I have been warned and told to tutor in three classes. I can’t possibly do it all.”

“Why Caroline Barnes, do you mean you are sent home?”

Caroline nodded. “It amounts to that. I was advised to go home now, and work off the entrance conditions and come again next fall. I thought maybe you’d be taking the same train,” she added with a nervous laugh.

Eleanor turned white. “Nonsense!” she said sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you said you hadn’t done anything about your conditions, and you’ve cut and flunked and scraped along much as I have, I fancy.”

“I’m sorry, Caroline,” said Eleanor, ignoring the digression. “I don’t know that you care, though. You’ve said you were bored to death up here.”

“I–I say a great deal that I don’t mean,” gulped Caroline. “Good-bye, Eleanor. Shall I see you in New York at Christmas? And don’t forget–trouble with my eyes. Oh, the family won’t mind. They didn’t like my coming up in the first place. I shall go abroad in the spring. Good-bye.”

Eleanor walked swiftly back through the campus. In the main building she consulted the official bulletin-board with anxious eyes, and fairly tore off a note addressed to “Miss Eleanor Watson, First Class.” It had come–a “warning” in Latin. Once back in her own room, Eleanor sat down to consider the situation calmly. But the more she thought about it, the more frightened and ashamed she grew. Thanksgiving was next week, and she had been given only until Christmas to work off her entrance conditions. She had meant to leave them till the last moment, rush through the work with a tutor, and if she needed it get an extension of time by some specious excuse. Had the last minute passed? The Latin warning meant more extra work. There were other things too. She had “cut” classes recklessly–three on the day of the sophomore reception, and four on a Monday morning when she had promised to be back from Boston in time for chapel. Also, she had borrowed Lil Day’s last year’s literature paper and copied most of it verbatim. She could make a sophistical defence of her morals to Betty Wales, but she understood perfectly what the faculty would think about them. The only question was, how much did they know?

When the dinner-bell rang, Eleanor pulled herself together and started down-stairs.

“Did you get your note, Miss Watson?” asked Adelaide Rich from the dining-room door.

“What note?” demanded Eleanor sharply.

“I’m sure I can’t describe it. It was on the hall table,” said Adelaide, turning away wrathfully. Some people were so grateful if you tried to do them a favor!

It was this incident which led Eleanor to hurry off after dinner, and again at the end of the play, bound to escape nerve-racking questions and congratulations. Later, when Betty knocked on her door, her first impulse was to let her in and ask her advice. But a second thought suggested that it was safer to confide in nobody. The next morning she was glad of the second thought, for things looked brighter, and it would have been humiliating indeed to be discovered making a mountain out of a mole-hill.

“The trouble with Caroline was that she wasn’t willing to work hard,” she told herself. “Now I care enough to do anything, and I must make them see it.”

She devoted her spare hours on Monday morning to “making them see it,” with that rare combination of tact and energy that was Eleanor Watson at her best. By noon her fears of being sent home were almost gone, and she was alert and exhilarated as she always was when there were difficulties to be surmounted.

“Now that the play is over, I’m going to work hard,” Betty announced at lunch, and Eleanor, who was still determined not to confide in anybody, added nonchalantly, “So am I.” It was going to be the best of the fun to take in the Chapin house.

But the Chapin house was not taken in for long.

“What’s come over Eleanor Watson?” inquired Katherine, a few days later, as the girls filed out from dinner.

“She’s working,” said Mary Brooks with a grin. “And apparently she thinks work and dessert don’t jibe.”

“I’m afraid it was time,” said Rachel. “She’s always cutting classes, and that puts a girl behind faster than anything else. I wonder if she could have had a warning in anything.”

“I think she could—” began Katherine, and then stopped, laughing. “I might as well own up to one in math.,” she said.

“Well, Miss Watson is going to stay here over Thanksgiving,” said Mary Rich.

Then plans for the two days’ vacation were discussed, and Eleanor’s affairs forgotten, much to the relief of Betty Wales, who feared every moment lest she should in some way betray Eleanor’s confidence.

On the Wednesday after Thanksgiving Eleanor burst in on her merrily, as she was dressing for dinner.

“I just wanted to tell you that some of those conditions that worry you so are made up,” she said. “I almost wore out my tutor, and I surprised the history department into a compliment, but I’m through. That is, I have only math., and one other little thing.”

“I don’t see how you did it,” sighed Betty. “I should never dare to get behind. I have all I want to do with the regular work.”

Eleanor leaned luxuriously back among the couch cushions. “Yes,” she said loftily. “I suppose you haven’t the faintest idea what real, downright hard work is, and neither can you appreciate the joys of downright idleness. I shall try that as soon as I’ve finished the math.”

“Why?” asked Betty. “Do you like making it up later?”

“I shouldn’t have to. You know I’m getting a reputation as an earnest, thorough student. That’s what the history department called me. A reputation is a wonderful thing to lean back upon. I ought to have gone in for one in September. I was at the Hill School for three years, and I never studied after the first three months. There’s everything in making people believe in you from the first.”

“What’s the use in making people believe you’re something that you’re not?” demanded Betty.

“What a question! It saves you the trouble of being that something. If the history department once gets into the habit of thinking me a thorough, earnest student, it won’t condition me because I fail in a written recitation or two. It will suppose I had an off day.”

“But you’d have to do well sometimes.”

“Oh, yes, occasionally. That’s easy.”

“Not for me,” said Betty, “so I shall have to do respectable work all the time. But I shall tell Helen about your idea. She works all the time, and it makes her dull and cross. She must have secured a reputation by this time; and I shall insist upon her leaning back on it for a while and taking more walks.”