It was great fun exercising all the new senior privileges. One of the first and most exciting was occupying the front seats at morning chapel.

“Although,” complained Betty Wales sadly, “you don’t get much good out of that, if your name begins with a W. Of course I am glad there are so many of 19—, but they do take up a lot of room. Nobody could tell that Eleanor and I were seniors, unless they knew it beforehand.”

“And then they wouldn’t believe it about you,” retorted Madeline, the tease.

Madeline, being an A, was one of the favored front row, who were near enough “to catch Prexy’s littlest smiles,” as Helen Adams put it, and who were the observed of all observers as they marched, two and two, down the middle aisle, just behind the faculty. Madeline, being tall and graceful and always perfectly self-possessed, looked very impressive, but little Helen Adams was dreadfully frightened and blushed to the roots of her smooth brown hair every morning.

“And yet I wouldn’t give it up for anything,” she confided to Betty. “I mean—I’ll exchange with you any time, but I do just love to sit there, although I dread walking out so. It’s just the same when I am talking to Miss Raymond or Miss Mills. I wish I weren’t such a goose.”

“You’re a very dear little goose,” Betty reassured her, wondering why in the world the clever Helen Adams was afraid of people, while she, who was only little Betty Wales, without much brains and with no big talent, felt perfectly at home with Dr. Hinsdale, Miss Raymond, and even the great “Prexy” himself.

“I suppose that is my talent,” she decided at last,—“not being afraid, and just plunging right in. Well, I suppose I ought to be glad that I have anything.”

Another senior privilege is the holding of the first class-meeting. Fresh indeed is the freshman class which neglects this order of precedence, and in deference to their childish impatience the seniors always hold their meeting as early in the term as possible. Of course 19—’s came on a lovely afternoon,—the first after an unusually long and violent “freshman rain.”

“Coming, Madeline?” asked Betty, passing Madeline’s single on her way out.

“Where?” inquired Madeline lazily from the depths of her Morris chair.

“To the class-meeting of course,” explained Betty. “Now don’t pretend you’ve forgotten and made another engagement. I just heard Georgia Ames telling you that she couldn’t go walking because of an unexpected written lesson.”

Madeline wriggled uneasily. “What’s the use?” she objected. “It’s too nice a day to waste indoors. There’ll be nothing doing for us. We elected Rachel last year, and none of the rest of the crowd will do for class officers.”

“What an idea!” said Betty loftily. “I’m thinking of nominating Babe for treasurer. Besides Rachel is going to wear a cap and gown—it’s a new idea that the council thought of, for the senior president to wear one—and Christy and Alice Waite are going to make speeches about the candidates. And I think they’re going to vote about our ten thousand dollars.”

Madeline rose despondently. “All right then, for this once. By the way, whom are they going to have for toastmistress at class-supper? They elect her to-day, don’t they?”

“I suppose so. I know the last year’s class chose Laurie at their first meeting. But I haven’t heard any one mentioned.”

“Then I’m going to nominate Eleanor Watson,” declared Madeline. “She’s never had a thing from the class, and she’s by far the best speaker we have except Emily Davis.”

“And Emily will be class-day orator of course,” added Betty. “Oh, Madeline, I’m so glad you thought of Eleanor. Won’t it be splendid to have a ‘Merry Heart’ for toastmistress?”

Madeline nodded carelessly. She was thinking more about a letter from home, with news that her father and mother were to sail at once for Italy, than about matters of class policy. She loved the Italian sea and the warm southern sunshine; and the dear old “out-at-elbows” villa on the heights above Sorrento was the nearest thing she had known to a home. Father had told her to come along if she liked—ever since she could remember she had been allowed to make her own decisions. But then, as Babbie had said, there was only one 19—, and with plenty of “passed up” courses to her credit she could work as little as she pleased this year and never go to a class-meeting after to-day.

“Let’s stop for the B’s,” she suggested, as they went out into the September sunshine. “Bob hates meetings as much as I do. I’m not going to be the only one to be disciplined.”

Before they had reached the Westcott, the B’s shouted to them from their hammocks in the apple-orchard, which they reluctantly abandoned to go to the meeting. Bob had just had an exciting runaway—her annual spills were a source of great amusement to her friends and of greater terror to her doting parents—and she was so eager to recount her adventures and display her bruises, that nothing more was said about Madeline’s plan for Eleanor.

The class-meeting was large and exciting. The election of a senior president is as thrilling an event at Harding as the coronation of a Czar of all the Russias to the world at large. It was a foregone conclusion that Marie Howard would be the unanimous choice of the class, but until the act was fairly consummated—and indeed until Marie had been dined at Cuyler’s and overwhelmed with violets to the satisfaction of her many friends—the excitement would not abate. There was a pleasant uncertainty about the other class officers. Six avowed candidates for the treasurership quarreled good naturedly over their respective qualifications for the position, each one in her secret soul intending to withdraw in favor of her dearest friend among the other five. In another corner of the room an agitated group discussed the best disposition of the ten thousand dollar fund.

“I don’t think we ought to dispose of it hastily,” Christy Mason was saying. “It’s a lot of money and we ought to consider very carefully before we decide.”

“Besides,” added Emily Davis flippantly, “as long as we delay our decision, we shall continue to be persons of importance in the eyes of the faculty. It’s comical to see how deferential they all are. I took dinner at the Burton Sunday, and afterward Miss Raymond invited a few of us into her room for coffee. She didn’t mention the money,—she’s too clever for that,—but she talked a lot about the constant need for new books in her department. ‘You can’t run an English department properly unless you can give your pupils access to the newest books’—that was the burden of her refrain. Marion Lustig was quite impressed. I think she means to propose endowing an English department library fund.”

“Dr. Hinsdale wants books for his department, and a lot of psychological journals—all about ghosts and mediums—that college professors look up about, you know,” Nita Reese ended somewhat vaguely.

“And Miss Kent is hoping we’ll give the whole sum to her to spend for another telescope,” added Babe, whose specialty, if one might dignify her unscholarly enthusiasms by that name, was astronomy.

“Every one of the faculty wants it for something,” said Christy.

“Naturally. They’re all human, aren’t they?” laughed Emily Davis, just as Rachel appeared in the doorway, looking very dignified and impressive in a cap and gown.

“Is the tassel right?” she whispered anxiously, as she passed a group of girls seated near the platform steps.

“No, put it the other side—unless you’re a Ph. D.,” returned Roberta Lewis in a sepulchral whisper. “Father has one. He lectures at Johns Hopkins,” she added, in answer to nudges from her neighbors and awestruck inquiries as to “how she knew.”

Then Rachel called the meeting to order. She thanked the class for the honor they had done her, and hoped she had not disappointed them.

“I’ve tried not to consider any clique or crowd,” she said—“not to think anything about the small groups in our class, but to find out what the whole big, glorious class of 19— wanted”—Rachel’s voice rang out proudly—“and then to carry out its wishes. I believe in public sentiment—in the big generous feeling that makes you willing to give up your own little plans because they are not big and fine enough to suit the whole class. I hope the elections to-day may be conducted in that spirit. We each want what we all want, I am sure. We know one another pretty well by this time, but perhaps it will help us in choosing the right persons for senior officers if some of the candidates’ friends make brief nominating speeches. It is now in order to nominate some one for the office of senior president.”

Christy was on her feet in an instant, nominating Marie Howard, in a graceful little speech that mentioned her tact and energy and class spirit, recalled some of the things she had done to make the class of 19— proud of her, and called attention to the fact that she had never had an important office before.

“And she wouldn’t be having one now if we hadn’t succeeded in throwing off the rule of a certain person named Eastman and her friends,” muttered Bob sotto voce.

Alice Waite seconded the nomination.

“I can’t make a real speech like Christy’s,” she stammered, blushing prettily, “but I want to call attention to Marie’s—I mean to Miss Howard’s sparkling sense of humor and strong personal magnetism. And—and—I am sure she’ll do splendidly,” ended little Alice, forgetting her set phrases and sitting down amidst a burst of amused applause.

Rachel called for other nominations but there were none, so Marie was elected unanimously, and with tremendous enthusiasm.

After she had assumed the cap and gown, taken the chair, and thanked her classmates, Barbara Gordon, one of Christy’s best friends, was made vice-president. Babe, to her infinite annoyance, found herself the victor in the treasurer’s contest, and Nita Reese was ensconced beside Marie in the secretary’s chair.

“And you said none of ‘The Merry Hearts’ would do for officers,” Betty whispered reproachfully to Madeline.

“Well, will they think we are office-grabbers, if I put up Eleanor?” asked Madeline.

“Oh, no,” declared Betty eagerly. “You see Babe’s such a general favorite—she’s counted into half a dozen crowds; and Nita is really a Hill girl, only she never would go to class-meetings when she was a freshman and so she was never identified with that set. You will propose Eleanor, won’t you?”

“Honor bright,” promised Madeline, and returned once more to the pages of a new magazine which she had insisted upon bringing, “in case things are too deadly slow.”

“The next business,” said Marie, consulting the notes that Rachel had handed her with the cap and gown, “the next business is to dispose of our ten thousand dollars.”

Instantly a dozen girls were on their feet, clamoring for recognition. Marion Lustig urged the need of books for the English department. Clara Madison, who after two years of amazement at Harding College in general and hatred of the bed-making it involved in particular, had suddenly awakened to a tremendous enthusiasm for microscopic botany, made a funny little drawling speech about the needs of her pet department. Two or three of Miss Ferris’s admirers declared that zoÖlogy was the most important subject in the college curriculum, and urged that the money should be used as a nest egg for endowing the chair occupied by that popular lady. The Spanish and Italian departments, being newly established, were suggested as particularly suitable objects for benevolence. Dr. Hinsdale’s department, the history and the Greek departments were exploited. 19— was a versatile class; there was somebody to plead for every subject in the curriculum, and at least half a dozen prominent members of the faculty were declared by their special admirers to stand first in 19—’s affections.

“Though that has really nothing to do with it,” said Jean Eastman testily, conscious that her plea for the modern language departments had fallen on deaf ears. “We’re not giving presents to the faculty, but to the college. I like Miss Raymond as well as any one——”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” muttered Bob, who had caught Jean in the act of reading an English condition at the end of Junior year.

Jean heard, understood, and flashed back an acrimonious retort about Miss Ferris’s partiality for Bob’s work.

The newly elected president, whose tact had been extolled by Emily Davis, found it speedily put to the test. “Don’t you think,” she began, “that we ought to hear from the girl who had most to do with our getting this money? Before we act upon the motion to refer the matter to a committee who shall interview the president and the faculty and find out how the rest of the money is to be spent and where ours seems to be most needed, I want to ask Miss Betty Wales for an expression of her opinion.”

Betty gave a little gasp. Parliamentary law was Hebrew to her, and speech-making a fearful and wonderful art, which she never essayed except in an emergency. But she recognized Marie’s distress, and rose hesitatingly, to pour oil on the troubled waters if possible.

“I certainly think there ought to be a committee,” she began slowly. “And I’m sure I know less than any one who has spoken about the needs of the different courses. I’m—well, I’m not a star in anything, you see. I agree with Jean that we ought not to make this a personal matter, and yet I am sure that the head of whatever department we give the money to will be pleased, and I don’t see why we shouldn’t consider that and choose somebody who has done a lot for 19—. But there are so many who have done a lot for us.” Betty frowned a perplexed little frown. “I wish too,” she went on very earnestly, “that we could do something that is like us. You know what I mean. We stand for fair play and a good time for everybody—that was why we had the dresses simple, you know.” The frown vanished suddenly and Betty’s fascinating little smile came into view instead. “I wonder—of course Prexy is always saying the college is poor, and the faculty are always talking about not having books enough, but I haven’t noticed but that they find enough to keep us busy looking up references.” (“Hear, hear!” chanted the B’s.) “It seems to me that Harding College is good enough as it is,” went on Betty, looking reproachfully at the disturbers. “The thing is to let as many girls as possible come here and enjoy it. Do you suppose the man who gave the money would be willing that we should use our share of it for scholarships? Four one hundred dollar scholarships would help four girls along splendidly. Of course that isn’t a department exactly,—and perhaps it’s a silly suggestion.” Betty slipped into her seat beside Madeline, blushing furiously, and looking blankly amazed when her speech brought forth a round of vigorous applause, and, as soon as parliamentary order would permit, a motion that 19— should, with the consent of the unknown benefactor of the college, establish four annual scholarships.

“I name Miss Wales as chairman of the committee to interview the president,” said Marie, beaming delightedly on her once more harmonious constituents. “The other two members of the committee I will appoint later. The next and last business of this meeting is to elect a toastmistress for our class-supper. She is always chosen early, you know, so that she can be thinking of toasts and getting material for them out of all the events of the year. Nominations are now in order.”

“I nominate Eleanor Watson,” said Madeline promptly, reluctantly closing her magazine and getting to her feet. “I needn’t tell any of you how clever she is nor how well she speaks. Next to one or two persons whose duties at commencement time are obvious and likely to be arduous”—Madeline grinned at Emily Davis, who was sure to be class-orator, and Babe leaned forward to pat Marion Lustig, who was equally sure to be class-poet, on the shoulder—“next to these one or two geniuses, Eleanor is our wittiest member. Of course our class-supper will be the finest ever,—it can’t help being—but with Eleanor Watson at the head of the table, it will eclipse itself. To quote the great Dr. Hinsdale, do you get my point?”

Kate Denise seconded the nomination with a heartiness that made Eleanor flush with pleasure. Betty watched her happily, half afraid she would refuse the nomination, as she had refused the Dramatic Club’s election; but she only sat quite still, her great eyes shining like stars. She was thinking, though Betty could not know that, of little Helen Adams and her “one big day” when she was elected to the “Argus” board.

“I know just how she felt,” Eleanor considered swiftly. “It’s after you’ve been left out and snubbed and not wanted that things like this really count. Oh, I’m so glad they want me now.”

“Are there any other nominations?” asked Marie. There was a little silence, broken by a voice saying: “Let’s make it unanimous. Ballots take so long, and everybody wants her.”

Then a girl got up from the back row,—a girl to whom Katherine Kittredge had once given the title of “Harding’s champion blunderbuss.” She could no more help doing the wrong thing than she could help breathing. She had begun her freshman year by opening the door into Dr. Hinsdale’s recitation-room, while a popular senior course was in session. “I beg your pardon, but are you Miss Stuart?” she had asked, looking full at the amazed professor, and upon receiving a gasping denial she had withdrawn, famous, to reappear now and then during her course always in similar rÔles. It happened that she had never heard of Eleanor Watson’s stolen story until a week before the class-meeting, when some one had told her the unvarnished facts, with no palliation and no reference to Eleanor’s subsequent change of heart or renunciation of one honor after another. Virtuous indignation and pained surprise struggled for expression upon her pasty, immobile face.

“Madam president,” she began, and waited formally for recognition.

“Oh, I say, it’s awfully late,” said somebody. “I’ve got five recitations to-morrow.”

This speech and the laugh that followed it put new vigor into the Champion’s purpose. “I hope I am not trespassing on any one’s time unduly,” she said, “by stating that—I dislike to say it here, but it has been forced upon me. I don’t think Miss Watson is the girl to hold 19—’s offices. Miss Wales said that we stood for fair play.” The Champion took her seat ponderously.

The room was very still. Marie sat, nonplused, staring at the Champion’s defiant figure. Madeline’s hands were clenched angrily. “I’d like to knock her down, the coward,” she muttered to Betty, who was looking straight ahead and did not seem to hear.

Hardly a minute had gone by, but more slowly than a minute ever went before, when Eleanor was on her feet. She had grown suddenly white, and her eyes had a hunted, strained look. “I quite agree with Miss Harrison,” she said in clear, ringing tones, her head held high. “I am not worthy of this honor. I withdraw my name, and I ask Miss Ayres, as a personal favor, to substitute some one’s else.”

Eleanor sat down, and Marie wet her lips nervously and looked at Madeline. “Please, Miss Ayres,” she begged.

“As a personal favor,” returned Madeline slowly, “because Eleanor Watson asks me, I substitute”—she paused—“Christy Mason’s name. I am sure that Miss Mason will allow it to be used, as a personal favor to every one concerned.”

“Indeed I——” began Christy impetuously. Then she met Eleanor’s beseeching eyes. “Very well,” she said, “but every one here except Miss Harrison knows that Miss Watson would be far better.”

It took only a minute to elect Christy and adjourn the ill-fated meeting.

“I thought she’d feel like hurrying home,” said Katherine sardonically, as the Champion, very red and militant, rushed past her toward the door.

Betty looked wistfully after the retreating figure. “I would rather have left college than had her say that. It doesn’t seem fair—after everything.”

“Serves me right, anyhow,” broke in Madeline despondently. “I was dreaming about castles in Italy instead of tackling the business in hand. If I had thought more I should have known that some freak would seize the opportunity to rake up old scores. Don’t feel so bad, Betty. It was my fault, and I’ll make it up to her somehow. Come and help me tell Christy that she’s a trump, and that I truly wanted her, next to Eleanor.”

When they had pushed their way through to Christy’s side, Eleanor, still white but smiling bravely, was shaking hands. “It was awfully good of you not to mind the little awkwardness,” she was saying. “The girls always want you—you know that.” She turned to find Betty standing beside her, looking as if her heart was broken.

“Why, Betty Wales,” she laughed, “cheer up. You’ve made the speech of the day, and three of your best friends are waiting to be congratulated. Tell Christy how pleased you are that she’s toastmistress and then come down town with me.”

Once out of the crowded room Eleanor grew silent, and Betty, too hurt and angry to know what to offer in the way of comfort, left her to her own thoughts. They had crossed the campus and were half way down the hill when Eleanor spoke.

“Betty,” she said, “please don’t care so. If you are going to feel this way, I don’t think I can bear it.”

Betty stared at her in astonishment. “Why Eleanor, it’s you that I care about. I can’t bear to have you treated so.”

Eleanor smiled sadly. “And can’t you see—no, of course you can’t, for you never did a mean or dishonorable thing in your life. If you had, you would know that the worst part of the disgrace, is that you have to share it with your friends. I don’t mind for myself, because what Miss Harrison said is true.”

“No, it’s not,” cried Betty hotly. “Not another girl in the whole class feels so.”

“That,” Eleanor went on, “is only because they are kind enough to be willing to forget. But to drag you in, and dear old Madeline, and all ‘The Merry Hearts’! You’ll be sorry you ever took me in.”

“Nonsense!” cried Betty positively. “Everybody knows that you’ve changed—everybody, that is, except that hateful Miss Harrison, and some day perhaps she’ll see it.”

That evening Betty explained to Helen, who had never heard a word of the “Argus” matter, why Eleanor had not been made an editor.

“Do you think there were any others to-day who didn’t want her?” she asked anxiously.

Helen hesitated. “Ye-es,” she admitted finally. “I think that Miss Harrison has some friends who feel as she does. I heard them whispering together. And one girl spoke to me. But I am sure they were about the only ones. Most of the girls feel dreadfully about it.”

“Of course no one who didn’t would say anything to me,” sighed Betty. “Oh, Helen, I am so disappointed.”

“Well,” returned Helen judicially, “it can’t be helped now, and in a way it may be a good thing. Eleanor will feel now that everybody who counts for much in the class understands, and perhaps there will be something else to elect her for, before the year is out.”

Betty shook her head. “No, it’s the last chance. She wouldn’t take anything after this, and anyway no one would dare to propose her, and risk having her insulted again.”

“I guess we shan’t any of us be tempted to do anything dishonest,” said Helen primly. “Doesn’t it seem to you as if the girls were getting more particular lately about saying whether they got their ideas from books and giving their authorities at the end of their papers?”

“Yes,” said Betty, “it does, and I think it’s a splendid thing. I went to a literary club meeting with Nan last Christmas and one of the papers was copied straight out of a book I’d just been reading, almost word for word. I told Nan and she laughed and said it was a very common way of doing. I think Harding girls will do a good deal if they help put a stop to that kind of thing. But that won’t be much comfort to Eleanor.”

When Helen had gone, Betty curled up on her couch to consider the day. “Mixed,” she told the little green lizard, “part very nice and part perfectly horrid, like most days in this world, I suppose, even in your best beloved senior year. I wonder if Prexy will like the scholarship idea. I straightened out one snarl, and then I helped make a worse one. And I shall be in another if I don’t set to work this very minute,” ended Betty, reaching for her Stout’s Psychology.