Eleanor Watson had gotten neither class spirit nor personal ambition from 19–’s “glorious old defeat,” as Katherine called it. The Saturday afternoon of the game she had spent, greatly to the disgust of her friends, on the way to New York, whither she went for a Sunday with Caroline Barnes. Caroline’s mother had been very ill, and the European trip was indefinitely postponed, but the family were going for a shorter jaunt to Bermuda. Caroline begged Eleanor to join them. “You can come as well as not,” she urged. “You know your father would let you–he always does. And we sail the very first day of your vacation too.”

“But you stay three weeks,” objected Eleanor, “and the vacation is only two.”

“What’s the difference? Say you were ill and had to stay over,” suggested Caroline promptly.Eleanor’s eyes flashed. “Once for all, Cara, please understand that’s not my way of doing business nowadays. I should like to go, though, and I imagine my father wouldn’t object. I’ll write you if I can arrange it.”

She had quite forgotten her idle promise when, on the following Monday morning, she stood in the registrar’s office, waiting to get a record card for chapel attendance in place of one she had lost. The registrar was busy. Eleanor waited while she discussed the pedagogical value of chemistry with a sophomore who had elected it, and now, after a semester and a half of gradually deteriorating work, wished to drop it because the smells made her ill.

“Does the fact that we sent you a warning last week make the smells more unendurable?” asked the registrar suggestively, and the sophomore retreated in blushing confusion.

Next in line was a nervous little girl who inquired breathlessly if she might go home right away–four days early. Some friends who were traveling south in their private car had telegraphed her to meet them in Albany and go with them to her home in Charleston.

“My dear, I’m sorry,” began the registrar sympathetically, “but I can’t let you go. We’re going to be very strict about this vacation. A great many girls went home early at Christmas, and it’s no exaggeration to say that a quarter of the college came back late on various trivial excuses. This time we’re not going to have that sort of thing. The girls who come back at all must come on time; the only valid excuse at either end of the vacation will be serious illness. I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” said the little girl, with a pathetic quiver in her voice. “I never rode in a private car. But–it’s no matter. Thank you, Miss Stuart.”

Eleanor had listened to the conversation with a curl of her lip for the stupid child who proffered her request in so unconvincing a manner, and an angry resentment against the authorities who should presume to dictate times and seasons. “They ought to have a system of cuts,” she thought. “That’s the only fair way. Then you can take them when you please, and if you cut over you know it and you do it at your peril. Here everything is in the air; you are never sure where you stand—”

“What can I do for you, Miss Watson?” asked the registrar pleasantly.

Eleanor got her chapel card and hurried home to telegraph her father for permission to go to Bermuda, and, as she knew exactly what his answer would be, to write Caroline that she might expect her. “You know I always take a dare,” she wrote. “My cuts last semester amounted to twice as much as this trip will use up, and if they make a fuss I shall just call their attention to what they let pass last time. Please buy me a steamer-rug, a blue and green plaid one, and meet me at the Forty-second Street station at two on Friday.”

Betty knew nothing about Eleanor’s plans, beyond what she had been able to gather from chance remarks of the other girls; and that was not much, for every time the subject came up she hastened to change it, lest some one should discover that Eleanor had told her nothing, and had scarcely spoken to her indeed for weeks. When Eleanor finally went off, without a sign or a word of good-bye, Betty discovered that she was dreadfully disappointed. She had never thought of the estrangement between them as anything but a temporary affair, that would blow over when Eleanor’s mortification over the debate was forgotten. She had felt sure that long before the term ended there would come a chance for a reconciliation, and she had meant to take the chance at any sacrifice of her pride. She was still fond of Eleanor in spite of everything, and she was sorry for her too, for her quick eyes detected signs of growing unhappiness under Eleanor’s ready smiles. Besides, she hated “schoolgirl fusses.” She wanted to be on good terms with every girl in 19–. She wanted to come back to a spring term unclouded by the necessity for any of the evasions and subterfuges that concealment of the quarrel with Eleanor and Jean Eastman’s strange behavior had brought upon her. And now Eleanor was gone; the last chance until after vacation had slipped through her fingers.

At home she told Nan all about her troubles, first exacting a solemn pledge of secrecy. “Hateful thing!” said Nan promptly. “Drop her. Don’t think about her another minute.”

“Then you don’t think I was to blame?” asked Betty anxiously.

“To blame? No, certainly not. To be sure,” Nan added truthfully, “you were a little tactless. You knew she didn’t know that you were in the secret of her having to resign, and you didn’t intend to tell her, so it would have been better for you to let some one else help Miss Eastman out.”

“But I thought I was helping Eleanor out.”

“In a way you were. But you see it wouldn’t seem so to her. It would look as though you disapproved of her appointment.”

“But Nan, she knows now that I knew.”

“Then I suppose she concludes that you took advantage of knowing. You say that it made you quite prominent for a while. You see, dear, when a person isn’t quite on the square herself—”

But Betty had burst into a storm of tears. “I am to blame,” she sobbed. “I am to blame! I knew it, only I couldn’t quite see how. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?”

“Don’t cry, dear,” said Nan in distress, at the unprecedented sight of Betty in tears. “I tell you, you were not to blame. You were a little unwise perhaps at first, but Miss Watson has refused your apologies and explanations and only laughs at you when you try to talk to her about it. I should drop her at once and forever; but, if you are bound to bring her around, the only way I can think of is to look out for some chance to serve her and so prove your real friendship–though what sort of friend she can be I can’t imagine.”

“Nan, she’s just like the girl in the rhyme,” said Betty seriously.

“Eleanor is a perfect dear most of the time. And Nan, there’s something queer about her mother. She never speaks of her, and she’s been at boarding school for eight years now, though she’s not seventeen till May. Think of that!”

“It certainly makes her excusable for a good deal,” said Nan. “How is my friend Helen Chase Adams coming on?”

“Why Nan, she’s quite blossomed out. She’s really lots of fun now. But I had an awful time with her for a while,” and she related the story of Helen’s winter of discontent. “I suppose that was my fault too,” she finished. “I seem to be a regular blunderer.”

“You’re a dear little sister, all the same,” declared Nan.

“I say girls, come and play ping-pong,” called Will from the hall below, and the interview ended summarily.

But the memory of Eleanor Watson seemed fated to pursue Betty through her vacation. A few days later an old friend of Mrs. Wales, who had gone to Denver to live some years before and was east on a round of visits, came in to call. The moment she heard that Betty was at Harding, she inquired for Eleanor. “I’m so glad you know her,” she said. “She’s quite a protÉgÉ of mine and she needs nice friends like you if ever a girl did. Don’t mention it about college, Betty, but she’s had a very sad life. Her mother was a strange woman–but there’s no use going into that. She died when Eleanor was a tiny girl, and Eleanor and her brother Jim have been at boarding schools ever since. In the summers, though, they were always with their father in Denver. They worshiped him, particularly Eleanor, and he has always promised her that when she was through school he would open the old Watson mansion and she should keep house for him and Jim. Then last year a pretty little society girl, only four or five years older than Eleanor, set her cap for the judge and married him. Jim liked her, but Eleanor was heart-broken, and the judge, seeing storms ahead, I suppose, and hoping that Eleanor would get interested and want to finish the course, made her promise to go to Harding for a year. Now don’t betray my confidence, Betty, and do make allowances for Eleanor. I hope she’ll be willing to stay on at college. It’s just what she needs. Besides, she’d be very unhappy at home, and her aunt in New York isn’t at all the sort of person for her to live with.”

So it came about that Betty returned to college more than ever determined to get back upon the old footing with Eleanor, and behold, Eleanor was not there! The Chapin house was much excited over her absence, for tales of the registrar’s unprecedented hardness of heart had gone abroad, and almost nobody else had dared to risk the mysterious but awful possibilities that a late return promised. As Betty was still supposed by most of the house to be in Eleanor’s confidence, she had to parry question after question as to her whereabouts. To, “Did she tell you that she was coming back late?” she could truthfully answer “No.” But the girls only laughed when she insisted that Eleanor must be ill.

“She boasts that she’s never been ill in her life,” said Mary Brooks.

And Adelaide Rich always added with great positiveness, “It’s exactly like her to stay away on purpose, just to see what will happen.”

Unfortunately Betty could not deny this, and she was glad enough to drop the argument. She had too many pleasant things to do to care to waste time in profitless discussion. For it was spring term. Nobody but a Harding girl knows exactly what that means. The freshman is very likely to consider the much heralded event only a pretty myth, until having started from home on a cold, bleak day that is springtime only by the calendar, she arrives at Harding to find herself confronted by the genuine article. The sheltered situation of the town undoubtedly has something to do with its early springs, but the attitude of the Harding girl has far more. She knows that spring term is the beautiful crown of the college year, and she is bound that it shall be as long as possible. So she throws caution and her furs to the winds and dons a muslin gown, plans drives and picnics despite April showers, and takes twilight strolls regardless of lurking germs of pneumonia. The grass grows green perforce and the buds swell to meet her wishes, while the sun, finding a creature after his brave, warm heart, does his gallant best for her.

“Do what little studying you intend to right away,” Mary Brooks advised her freshmen. “Before you know it, it will be too warm to work.”“But at present it’s too lovely,” objected Roberta.

“Then join the Athletic Association and trust to luck, but above all join the Athletic Association. I’m on the membership committee.”

“Can I get into the golf club section this time?” asked Betty, who had been kept on the waiting list all through the fall.

“Yes, you just squeeze in, and Christy Mason wants you to play round the course with her to-morrow.”

“I’m for tennis,” said Katherine. “Miss Lawrence and I are going to play as soon as the courts are marked out. By the way, when do the forget-me-nots blossom?”

“Has Laurie roped you into that?” asked Mary Brooks scornfully.

“Don’t jump at conclusions,” retorted Katherine.

“I didn’t have to jump. The wild ones blossom about the middle of May. You’ll have to think of something else if you want to make an immediate conquest of your angel. And speaking of angels,” added Mary, who was sitting by a window, “Eleanor Watson is coming up the walk.”

The girls trooped out into the hall to greet Eleanor, who met them all with the carefully restrained cordiality that she had used toward them ever since the break with Betty. Yes, Bermuda had been charming, such skies and seas. Yes, she was just a week late–exactly. No, she had not seen the registrar yet, but she had heard last term that excuses weren’t being given away by the dozen.

“I met a friend of yours during vacation,” began Betty timidly in the first pause.

Eleanor turned to her unsmilingly. “Oh yes, Mrs. Payne,” she said. “I believe she mentioned it. I saw her last night in New York.” Then she picked up her bag and walked toward her room with the remark that late comers mustn’t waste time.

The next day at luncheon some one inquired again about her excuse. Eleanor shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, that’s all right; you needn’t be at all anxious. The interview wasn’t even amusing. The week is to be counted as unexcused absence–which as far as I can see means nothing whatever.”“You may find out differently in June,” suggested Mary, nettled by Eleanor’s superior air.

“Oh, June!” said Eleanor with another shrug. “I’m leaving in June, thank the fates!”

“Perhaps you’ll change your mind after spring term. Everybody says it’s so much nicer,” chirped Helen.

“Possibly,” said Eleanor curtly, “but I really can’t give you much encouragement, Miss Adams.” Whereat poor Helen subsided meekly, scarcely raising her eyes from her plate through the rest of the meal.

“Better caution your friend Eleanor not to air those sentiments of hers about unexcused absences too widely, or she’ll get into trouble,” said Mary Brooks to Betty on the way up-stairs; but Betty, intent on persuading Roberta to come down-town for an ice, paid no particular attention to the remark, and it was three weeks before she thought of it again.

She found Eleanor more unapproachable than ever this term, but remembering Nan’s suggestion she resolved to bide her time. Meanwhile there was no reason for not enjoying life to the utmost. Golf, boating, walking, tennis–there were ten ways to spend every spare minute. But golf usually triumphed. Betty played very well, and having made an excellent record in her first game with Christy, she immediately found herself reckoned among the enthusiasts and expected to get into trim for the June tournament. Some three weeks after the beginning of the term she went up to the club house in the late afternoon, intending to practice putting, which was her weak point and come home with Christy and Nita Reese, another golf fiend, who had spent the whole afternoon on the course.

But on the club house piazza she found Dorothy King. Dorothy played golf exceedingly well, as she did everything else; but as she explained to Betty, “By junior year all this athletic business gets pretty much crowded out.” She still kept her membership in the club, however, and played occasionally, “just to keep her hand in for the summer.” She had done six holes this afternoon, all alone, and now she was resting a few moments before going home. She greeted Betty warmly. “I looked for you out on the course,” she said, “but your little pals thought you weren’t coming up to-day. How’s your game?”

“Better, thank you,” said Betty, “except my putting, and I’m going to practice on that now. Did you know that Christy had asked me to play with her in the inter-class foursomes?”

“That’s good,” said Dorothy cordially. “Do you see much of Eleanor Watson these days?” she added irrelevantly.

“Why–no-t much,” stammered Betty, blushing in spite of herself. “I see her at meals of course.”

“I thought you told me once that you were very fond of her.”

“Yes, I did–I am,” said Betty quickly, wondering what in the world Dorothy was driving at.

“She was down at the house last night,” Dorothy went on, “blustering around about having come back late, saying that she’d shown what a bluff the whole excuse business is, and that now, after she has proved that it’s perfectly easy to cut over at the end of a vacation, perhaps some of us timid little creatures will dare to follow her lead. But perhaps you’ve heard her talking about it.”

“I heard her say a little about it,” admitted Betty, suddenly remembering Mary Brooks’s remark. Had the “trouble” that Mary had foreseen anything to do with Dorothy’s questions?

“She’s said a great deal about it in the last two weeks,” went on Dorothy. “Last night after she left, her senior friend, Annette Cramer, and I had a long talk about it. We both agreed that somebody ought to speak to her, but I hardly know her, and Annette says that she’s tried to talk to her about other things and finds she hasn’t a particle of influence with her.” Dorothy paused as if expecting some sort of comment or reply, but Betty was silent. “We both thought,” said Dorothy at last, “that perhaps if you’d tell her she was acting very silly and doing herself no end of harm she might believe you and stop.”

“Oh, Miss King, I couldn’t,” said Betty in consternation. “She wouldn’t let me–indeed she wouldn’t!”“She told Annette once that she admired you more than any girl in college,” urged Dorothy quietly, “so your opinion ought to have some weight with her.”

“She said that!” gasped Betty in pleased amazement. Then her face fell. “I’m sorry, Miss King, but I’m quite sure she’s changed her mind. I couldn’t speak to her; but would you tell me please just why any one should–why you care?”

“Why, of course, it’s not exactly my business,” said Dorothy, “except that I’m on the Students’ Commission, and so anything that is going wrong is my business. Miss Watson is certainly having a bad influence on the girls she knows in college, and besides, if that sort of talk gets to the ears of the authorities, as it’s perfectly certain to do if she keeps on, she will be very severely reprimanded, and possibly asked to leave, as an insubordinate and revolutionary character. The Students’ Commission aims to avoid all that sort of thing, when a quiet hint will do it. But Miss Watson seems to be unusually difficult to approach; I’m afraid if you can’t help us out, Betty, we shall have to let the matter rest.” She gathered up her caddy-bag. “I must get the next car. Don’t do it unless you think best. Or if you like ask some one else. Annette and I couldn’t think of any one, but you know better who her friends are.” She was off across the green meadow.

Betty half rose to follow, then sank back into her chair. Dorothy had not asked for an answer; she had dropped the matter, had left it in her hands to manage as she thought fit, appealing to her as a friend of Eleanor’s, a girl whom Eleanor admired. “Whom she used to admire,” amended Betty with a sigh. But what could she do? A personal appeal was out of the question; it would effect nothing but a widening of the breach between them. Could Kate Denise help? She never came to see Eleanor now. Neither did Jean Eastman–why almost nobody did; all her really intimate friends seemed to have dropped away from her. And yet she must think of some one, for was not this the opportunity she had so coveted? It might be the very last one too, thought Betty. “If anything happened to hurt Eleanor’s feelings again, she wouldn’t wait till June. She’d go now.” She considered girl after girl, but rejected them all for various reasons. “She wouldn’t take it from any girl,” she decided, and with that decision came an inspiration. Why not ask Ethel Hale? Ethel had tried to help Eleanor before, was interested in her, and understood something of her moody, many-sided temperament. She had put Eleanor in her debt too; she could urge her suggestion on the ground of a return favor.

In an instant Betty’s mind was made up. She looked ruefully at her dusty shoes and mussed shirt-waist. “I can’t go to see Ethel in these,” she decided, “but if I hurry home now I can dress and go right up there after dinner, before she gets off anywhere.” The putting must wait. With one regretful glance out over the green, breezy course Betty started resolutely off toward the dusty highway and the noisy trolleys.