“The 19— scholarships, providing aid to the approximate sum of one hundred dollars for each of four students, preferably members of an upper class”—thus the announcement was to appear formally in the college catalogue. The president and the donor had both heartily approved of Betty’s scheme, and the scholarships were an accomplished fact. It had been the donor’s pleasant suggestion that 19— should keep in perpetual touch with its gift to the college by appointing a committee to act with one from the faculty in disposing of the scholarships. Betty Wales was chairman, of course. 19— did not intend that she should forget her connection with those scholarships. Betty took her duties very seriously. She watched the girls at chapel, in the recitation halls, on the campus, noted those with shabby clothes and worried faces, found out their names and their boarding-places, and set tactful investigations on foot about their needs. The enormous number of her “speaking acquaintances” became a college joke.

“Bow, Betty,” Katherine would whisper, whenever on their long country walks, they met a group of girls who looked as if they might belong to the college. And then, “Is it possible I’ve found somebody you don’t know? Better look them up right away.”

“It’s splendid training for your memory,” Betty declared, and it was, and splendid training besides in helpfulness and social service, though Betty did not put it so grandly. To her it was just trying to take Dorothy King’s place, and not succeeding very well either.

In looking up strangers, Betty did not forget her friends. Nobody could be more deserving of help than Rachel Morrison. Her hard summer’s work had worn on her and made the busy round of tutoring and study seem particularly irksome. But Rachel, while she was pleased to think that she had been the joint committee’s first choice, refused the money.

“I could only take it as a loan,” she said, “and I don’t want to have a debt hanging over my head next year. I’m not so tired now as I was when I first got back, and I can rest all next summer. Did I tell you that Babbie Hildreth’s uncle has offered me a position in his school for next fall?”

Emily Davis, on the other hand, was very glad to accept a scholarship,—“As a loan of course,” she stipulated. She had practically supported herself for the whole four years at Harding, and the strain and worry had begun to tell on her. A little easier time this year would mean better fitness for the necessarily hard year of teaching that was to follow, without the interval of rest that Rachel counted upon. Emily’s mother was dead now, and her father made no effort to help his ambitious daughter. She might have had a place in the woolen mills, where he worked years before, he argued; since she had not taken it, she must look out for herself.

But with the serious side of life was mixed, for Betty and the rest, plenty of gaiety. 19— might not be greatly missed after they had gone out into the wide, wide world, but while they stayed at Harding everybody seemed bent on treating them royally.

“You know this is the last fall you’ll have here,” Polly Eastman would say, pleading with Betty to come for a drive. “There’s no such beautiful autumn foliage near Cleveland.”

Or, “You must come to our house dance,” Babbie Hildreth would declare. “Just think how few Harding dances there are left for us to go to!”

Even the most commonplace events, such as reading aloud in the parlors after dinner, going down to Cuyler’s for an ice, or canoeing in Paradise at sunset took on a new interest. Seniors who had felt themselves superior to the material joys of fudge-parties and scorned the crudities of amateur plays and “girl-dances,” eagerly accepted invitations to either sort of festivity.

“And the moral of that, as our dear departed Mary Brooks would say,” declared Katherine, “is: Blessings brighten as diplomas come on apace. Between trying not to miss any fun and doing my best to distinguish myself in the scholarly pursuits that my soul loves, I am well nigh distraught. Don’t mind my Shakespearean English, please. I’m on the senior play committee, and I recite Shakespeare in my sleep.”

Dearest of all festivities to the Harding girl is Mountain Day, and there were all sorts of schemes afoot among 19—’s members for making their last Mountain Day the best of the four they had enjoyed so much. Horseback riding was the prevailing fad at Harding that fall, and every girl who could sit in a saddle was making frantic efforts to get a horse for an all-day ride among the hills. Betty was a beginner, but she had been persuaded to join a large party that included Eleanor, Christy, Madeline, Nita, and the B’s. They were going to take a man to look after the horses, and they had planned their ride so that the less experienced equestrians could have a long rest after luncheon, and taking a cross-cut through the woods, could join the others, who would leave the picnic-place earlier and make a long detour, so as to have their gallop out in peace.

It was a sunny, sultry Indian summer day,—a perfect day to ride, drive or walk, or just to sit outdoors in the sunshine, as Roberta Lewis announced her intention of doing. She helped the horseback riders to adjust their little packages of luncheon, and looked longingly after them, as they went cantering down the street, waving noisy farewells to their friends.

“I wish I weren’t such a coward,” she confided to Helen Adams, who was starting to join Rachel and Katherine for a long walk. “I love horses, but I should die of fright if I tried to ride one.”

“Oh, they have a man with them,” said Helen easily, “and it’s a perfect day for a ride.”

Roberta, who almost lived outdoors, and was weatherwise in consequence, looked critically at the western horizon. “I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if it rained before night,” she said. “You’d better decide to laze around in Paradise with me.”

But Helen only laughed at Roberta’s caution and went on, whereat Roberta Lewis was very nearly the only Harding girl who was not drenched to the skin before Mountain Day was over.

The riding-party galloped through the town and stopped at the edge of the meadows for consultation.

“Let’s go by the bridge and come back by the ferry,” suggested Madeline. “Then we shall have the prettiest part of the ride saved for sunset.”

“And you’ll have a better road both ways, miss,” put in the groom practically.

So the party crossed the long toll-bridge, the horses stepping hesitatingly and curveting a little at the swish of the noisy water, climbed the sunny hills beyond, and dipped down to a level stretch of wood, in the heart of which they chose a picnic-ground by the side of a merry little brook.

“We must have a fire,” announced Bob, who had fallen behind the procession, and now came up at the trot, just as the others were dismounting.

“But we haven’t anything to cook,” objected Eleanor.

“Coffee,” grinned Bob jubilantly. “I’ve got folding cups stuffed around under my sweater, and I stopped at that farmhouse back by the fork in the road to get a pail.”

“And there are marshmallows to toast,” added Babe. “That’s what I’ve got in my sweater.”

“I thought you two young ladies had grown awful stout on a sudden,” chuckled the groom, beginning to pile up twigs under an overhanging ledge of rock.

“And here are some perfectly elegant mushrooms,” declared Madeline, who had been poking about among the fallen leaves. “We can use the pail for those first, and have the coffee with dessert.”

All the girls had brought sandwiches, stuffed eggs, cakes, and fruit, so that, with the extras, the picnic was “truly elegant,” as Babe put it. They sang songs while they waited for the coffee to boil, and toasted Babe’s marshmallows, two at a time, on forked sticks, voting Babe a trump to have thought of them.

Then they lay on the green turf by the brook, talking softly to the babbling accompaniment of its music.

Finally Eleanor shivered and sat up. “Where is the sun?” she asked. “Oughtn’t we to be starting?”

The sky was not dark or threatening, only a bit gray and dull. The groom was to stay with the novices—Christy, Babe and Betty—who, as soon as the rest had mounted, raced down the road to get warm and also to return the pail that Bob had borrowed, to its owner. By the time they got back, after making a short call on the farmer’s wife, the sun was struggling out again, but the next minute big drops began to patter down through the leaves.

The groom considered the situation. “I guess you’ll jest have to wait and git wet. Miss Hildreth’s horse is skittish on ferries. I wouldn’t wanter go on with you an’ leave her to cross alone.”

So they waited, keeping as dry as possible under a pine tree, until the time appointed for starting to the rendezvous. It was raining steadily now. Babe’s horse objected to getting wet, and pulled on the reins sullenly. The sky was fairly black. Altogether it was an uncomfortable situation.

The road to the river was damp and slippery, and most of it was a steep down-grade. There was nothing to do but walk the horses, Babe’s dancing sidewise in a fashion most upsetting to Betty’s nerves. By the time they had reached the ferry, darkness seemed to have settled, and there were low growlings of thunder. Babe’s horse reared, and she dismounted and stood at his head while they waited for the ferry to cross to them.

“I guess there’s goin’ to be a bad shower,” volunteered the groom. “I guess we’d better wait over in that barn till it’s over. Animals don’t like lightning.”

The ferry seemed to crawl across the river, but it arrived at last, and each girl led her horse on board. They were all frightened, but nobody showed the “white feather.” Babe’s cheeks were pale, though, as she patted her restive mount, and laughed bravely at Madeline’s futile efforts to feed sugar to her tall “Black Beauty,” who jerked his nose impatiently out of her reach each time she tried.

“Beauty must be awfully upset if he doesn’t want sugar,” said Babbie, who was standing next the groom. “He’s the greed——” The next minute Betty found herself holding her own and the groom’s horse, while he plunged after Babbie’s, who was snorting and kicking right into the midst of everything. It had lightened, and between the lightning and the water Babbie’s high-spirited mare was frantic, and was fast communicating her excitement to the others.

A minute later there was a tremendous jolt which set all the horses to jumping.

“I swan,” said the apathetic ferryman who had paid no attention to the previous confusion. “We’re aground.”

The girls looked at one another through the gathering shadows.

“How are we going to get off?” asked the groom desperately.

The ferryman considered. “I dunno.”

Babbie’s horse plunged again.

“Can we wade to shore?” asked the groom, when something like order was restored.

“Easy. You see I knew the river was awful low, but I s’posed——”

“The only thing that I can think of,” interrupted the groom, “is for us to leave you girls with the horses, while we get to shore. Then you send ’em off one by one, and we’ll catch ’em. Miss Hildreth, you send yours first. No, Miss Wales, you send mine first, then Miss Hildreth’s may follow better. I’m awfully sorry to make you young ladies so much trouble.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” said Babbie bravely, shaking the water out of her eyes. “Only—do hurry, please.”

The “easy wading” proved to be through water up to a man’s shoulders, and it lightened twice, with the usual consequences to Babbie’s horse, before the groom signaled. His horse went off easily enough, but Babbie’s balked and then reared, and Betty’s lay down first and then kicked viciously, when she and Babbie between them had succeeded in getting him to stand up. Finally Madeline broke her crop in getting him over the side, and when Black Beauty had also been sent ashore the ferry lurched a little and floated.

“Do you suppose we shall ever get dry again?” asked Eleanor lightly, while they waited for the ferryman to come back to them.

Babbie touched her black coat gingerly. “Am I wet?” she whispered to Betty. “Of course I am, but I’d forgotten it.” The reins had cut one of her hands through her heavy glove, but she had forgotten that too, as she shivered and clung to the railing that Black Beauty had splintered when he went over. All she could think of was the horror of riding that plunging, foam-flecked horse home.

The ferryman took them to his house, which was the nearest one to the landing; and while he and the groom rubbed down the horses, his wife and little daughter made more coffee for the girls and helped them wring out their dripping clothes.

Babe pretended to find vast enjoyment in watching the water trickle off her skirts and gaiters. Christy, who rode bare-headed, declared that she had gotten a beautiful shampoo free of charge. Even Babbie smiled faintly and called attention to the “mountain tarn” splashing about in the brim of her tri-corn hat.

“I tell ye, them girls air game,” declared the ferryman watching them ride off as soon as the storm was over. “That little slim one on the bay mare is a corker. Her horse cut up somethin’ awful. They all offered to change with her, but she said she guessed she could manage. Look at the way she sets an’ pulls. She’s got grit all right. I guess I’ll have to make out to have you go to college, Annie.”

Whereupon little Annie spent a rapturous evening dreaming of the time when she should be a Harding girl, and be able to say bright, funny things like Miss Ayres. She resolved to wear her hair like Miss Watson and to have a pleasant manner like Miss Wales, and above all to be “gritty” like Miss Hildreth. For the present evening the fiercest steed she could find to subdue was an arithmetic lesson. Annie hated arithmetic, but in the guise of a plunging bay mare, that it took grit to ride, she rather enjoyed forcing the difficult problems to come out right.

Meanwhile the riding party had reached the campus, a little later and a little wetter than most of their friends, and they were provided with hot baths and hot drinks, and put to bed, where they lay in sleepy comfort enjoying the feeling of being heroines.

Very soon after dinner Betty got tired of being a heroine, and when Georgia Ames appeared and announced that a lot of freshmen were making fudge in her room and wished Betty would come and have some and tell them all about her experiences, she looked anxiously at Helen Adams, who was the only person in the room just then.

“It’s awfully good fudge—got marshmallows in it, and nuts,” urged Georgia. “They want Miss Adams too.”

“Can I come in a kimono?” asked Betty. “I’m too tired to dress.”

“Of course. Only——” Georgia hesitated.

“There’s a man in the parlor, calling on Polly Eastman. And the folding doors are stuck open. I wish my room wasn’t down on that floor. You have to be so careful of your appearance.”

Betty frowned. “I want awfully to come. Can’t you two think of a way?”

“Why of course,” cried Georgia gleefully, after a moment’s consideration. “We’ll hold a screen around you. The man will know that something queer is inside it, but he can’t see what.”

So the procession started, Helen and Georgia carrying the screen. At the top of the last flight, they adjusted it around Betty, and began slowly to make the descent. At the curve Georgia looked down into the hall and stopped, in consternation.

“They’ve moved out into the hall,” she whispered. “No—this is Lucile Merrifield and another man. We’ve got to go right past them.”

“Let’s go back,” whispered Betty.

“But they’ve seen us,” objected Helen, “and you’d miss the fudge.”

A moment later, three girls and a Japanese screen fell through Georgia’s door into the midst of an amazed freshmen fudge party.

“Goodness,” said Georgia, when she had recovered her breath. “Did you hear that horrid Lucile? ‘A regular freshman trick’—that’s what she said to her man. They blame everything on us.”

“Well if this fudge is regular freshman fudge, it’s the best I ever tasted,” said little Helen Adams tactfully.

Later in the evening Betty trailed her red kimono into Helen’s room. “Helen,” she began, “did I have on my pearl pin when we started down-stairs to-night? I can’t find it anywhere.”

“I don’t think you did,” said Helen, thoughtfully, “but I’ll go and see. You might have dropped it off when we all landed in a heap on the floor.”

But the freshmen had not found the pin and diligent search of Georgia’s room, as well as of the halls and stairways, failed to reveal it.

“Oh, well, I suppose it will turn up,” said Betty easily. “I lost it once last year, and ages afterward I found it in my desk. I shan’t worry yet awhile. I didn’t have it on this morning, did I?”

This time Helen remembered positively. “No, you had on your lucky pin—the silver four-leaved clover that I like so much. I noticed particularly.”

“All right then,” said Betty. “I saw it last night, so it must be about somewhere. Some day when I’m not so lame from riding and so sleepy, I’ll have a grand hunt for it.”