“Did you see Mr. Masters in chapel this morning with Miss Kingston?”

This was the choice tid-bit of news that 19— passed from hand to hand as it took its way to its various nine o’clock classes.

“I thought he wasn’t coming until to-morrow,” said Teddie Wilson, who followed every move of the play committee with mournful interest.

“He wasn’t,” explained Barbara Gordon, “but he found he could get off better to-day. It’s only for the Shylocks and Portias, you know. We can’t do much until they’re definitely decided, so we can tell who is left for the other parts.”

“Gratiano and the Gobbos will come in the next lot,” sighed Teddie. “Seems as if I should die to be out of it all!”

Jean Eastman was just ahead of them in the crowd. “Poor Teddie!” Barbara began, “I only wish—-” She broke off abruptly. She didn’t want Jean for Shylock, but it would have been the height of impropriety to let even Teddie, whose misfortunes made her a privileged person, know it. “It’s a perfect shame,” she went on hastily. “You don’t feel half so bad about it as we do.”

Ted stared incredulously. “Don’t I? I say, Barbara, did you know there was a girl in last year’s cast who had had a condition at midyears? She kept still and somehow it wasn’t reported to Miss Stuart until very late, and by that time it would have made a lot of trouble to take her out. So they hushed it up and she kept her part. A last year’s girl wrote me about it.”

“I don’t believe she had much fun out of it, do you, Ted?” asked Barbara. “Anyhow I’m sure you—”

“Oh, of course not,” interrupted Ted with emphasis.

“What in the world are you two talking about?” demanded Jean Eastman curiously, dropping back to join them.

“Talking play of course!” laughed Barbara, trying to be extra cordial because she had so nearly said a disagreeable thing a minute before.

Meanwhile Ted, who felt that she should break the tenth commandment to atoms if she stayed in Jean’s neighborhood another minute, slipped off down a side hall and joined a group of her classmates who were bound like herself for Miss Raymond’s English novelists. They were talking play too, of course,—it was in the air this morning,—and they welcomed Ted joyously and deferred to her opinion as that of an expert.

“Who’ll be Shylock, Teddie?” demanded Bob Parker. “That’s the only thing I’m curious about.”

“Jean,” returned Ted calmly, “or at least the committee think so. I can tell by the way Barbara looks at her.”

“Beastly shame,” muttered Bob. “Why couldn’t Emily and Christy have braced up and got it themselves?”

“Now, Bob,” Nita Reese remonstrated, “don’t you think you’re a bit hard on Jean this time? I know she’s a good deal of a land-grabber, but now she’s gone into an open competition just like any one else, and if she wins it will be because she deserves to.”

“Ye-es,” admitted Bob grudgingly. “Yes, of course it will. I know that as well as you do, Nita Reese. Just the same she’s never any good in Gest and Pant, is she, Teddie?”

“In what?” demanded Helen Adams and Clara Madison together.

“Gest and Pant—short for Gesture and Pantomime, senior course in elocution,” explained Teddie rapidly. “Oh, I don’t know. I think she’s done some pretty good things once in a while. And anyhow she can’t fool the committee and Mr. Masters.”

“Of course not,” agreed Bob.

“Just the same,” said Madeline Ayres, who had come up in time to hear the end of the argument, “we’ll stand for her if she gets the part, but until she does we can hope against hope for a dark horse, can’t we, Bob?”

“What’s a dark horse?” asked Clara Madison in her funny, slow drawl.

“Your vocabulary’s getting a big increase this morning, isn’t it, Clara?” said Madeline quizzically. “Gest and Pant, short for Gesture and Pantomime; dark horse, short for a person like—— Girls, run in, quick. She’s begun calling the roll.”

It was a long morning. The committee watched its hours go by complacently enough. They had heard Jean again and liked her better; and the two girls who were to compete with her had improved, too, on second trial. There was no doubt that the Portias were good. They were also nervous. Kate Denise didn’t even pretend to “Take notes, young ladies,” though Dr. Hinsdale looked straight at her when he said it, and Babbie Hildreth made herself the butt of endless jibes by absent-mindedly mentioning Nerissa instead of Napoleon in History 10. Jean, on the other hand, was as cool as possible. She sat beside Teddie Wilson in philosophy, much to the annoyance of that unhappy young person, and added insult to injury by trying to discuss the play. Teddie was as unresponsive as she thought consistent with the duty of being lady-like, but Jean didn’t seem to mind, for she went off to lunch smiling a satisfied, triumphant little smile that seemed to say she had gotten just what she wanted out of Teddie.

At two o’clock Mr. Masters and Miss Kingston met the play committee in Miss Kingston’s office, and the Shylock trials began. At ten minutes before three the great Mr. Masters appeared in the door of the office and tossing a careless “Back at four-thirty sharp” over his shoulder, ran down the stairs as lightly as though he were not leaving riot and ruin behind him. A minute later Barbara Gordon came to the door and explained to the Portias who were waiting to come on at three, that it had been found necessary to delay their appearance until evening. Barbara always looked calm and unruffled under the most trying circumstances, but she shut the door unnecessarily hard and the Portias exchanged amazed glances.

“Something’s happened,” declared Babe, sagely.

“‘Oh, wise young judge!’” quoted Nita. “Why don’t you tell us what it is?”

“I must go if we have to come back this evening,” said Kate Denise, and hurried off to find Jean, who had promised to meet her in the library.

Kate understood Jean very well and often disapproved of her, but she had known her a long time and was genuinely fond of her and anxious for her success. Jean had complained of a headache at luncheon and seemed nervous and absent-minded. Kate wondered if she could possibly have broken down and spoiled her chance with Mr. Masters, thus disarranging the committee’s plans.

But Jean scoffed at this idea. “I did my best,” she declared, “and he was awfully nice. You’ll like him, Katie. I suppose he had an engagement, or was tired and wanted to go off somewhere and smoke. He gets up plays all the time, you know. It must be horribly boring.”

Meanwhile Miss Kingston and the play committee sat in mournful conclave. Nobody had much to say. Clara Ellis looked “I told you so” at the rest, and the rest looked back astonishment, dismay and annoyance at Clara.

“Is he generally so—so decided and, well,—so quick to make up his mind?” asked Betty, finally.

Miss Kingston laughed at Betty’s carefully chosen adjectives and shook her head. “He’s generally very patient and encouraging, but to-day something seems to have spoiled his temper. I don’t believe, though, that his irritability has affected his judgment. I agree perfectly with what he said about Miss Eastman.”

“Yes,” agreed Barbara, “he put into words what we all felt when we first heard her. Afterward we wanted so much to think she was good that we actually cheated ourselves into thinking so.”

“Do tell me what happened,” begged Rachel Morrison. She had been kept at home by a belligerent sophomore who insisted upon being tutored at her regular hour, and had arrived only just in time for Mr. Masters’s dramatic exit.

“Why, he was perfectly calm while the Shylocks were performing,” explained Barbara. “We had Jean come last because we thought that would give them all the best chance. He smiled blandly while she was going through her part and bowed her out as if she had been a second Booth. Then he sat back and looked at me and said ‘Well?’ and I said, ‘Do you like her best, Mr. Masters?’ He glared at me for a minute and then began to talk about the seriousness of giving a Shakespearean play and the confidence he’d felt in us to advise us to give this one, and the reasons why none of the girls he’d heard would do at all for Shylock. When he was through he just picked up his hat and coat and told us to go and get the other girls who tried, as he’d be ready to see them at half-past four. After that he apologized to Miss Kingston if he’d been ‘in the least abrupt’—and went.”

“And what are we to do now?” demanded Clara, wearily.

“Get them—the forlorn hopes, as he called them,” said Barbara, determined to be cheerful, “and hope that we shall be happily disappointed in them. Somebody’s got to be Shylock, you know. Betty, will you go for these three girls on Main Street?” She handed Betty a slip of paper. “Clara, will you try to find Emily Davis? Rachel, you look tired to death. Go home and rest. Josephine and I can manage the campus people.”

“There’s no use in your getting the Miller girls,” said Clara, decisively. “One lisps and the other stammers.”

“That’s true,” agreed Barbara, cheerily. “We’ll leave them out, and Kitty Lacy has gone home ill. I wish we could think of some promising people who haven’t tried at all. Eleanor Watson used to act very cleverly. Betty, do you suppose she would be willing to come and read the part?”

Betty shook her head. “I don’t think she would take a part under any circumstances, but certainly not if she had to compete with Jean. They’re such old friends.”

“How about Madeline Ayres?”

“She’s set her heart on being the Prince of Morocco,” laughed Betty, “because she wants to be blackened up. Anyway I don’t think—”

“No, I don’t either, Betty,” interposed Miss Kingston. “Miss Ayres couldn’t do a part like Shylock.”

“Then I don’t believe there is any one else who didn’t try before,” said Barbara. “We must just hope for the best, that’s all.”

Betty had opened the door preparatory to starting on her rounds when she happened to remember Roberta and her exaggerated disappointment over missing the last week’s trials.

“Barbara,” she began timidly, closing the door again, “I know some one who intended to try but she was sick with the grippe and couldn’t. It’s Roberta Lewis. She told me not to speak of her having wanted to try, but I don’t see why she shouldn’t have a chance now, do you? She couldn’t be worse than some of them.”

“She certainly couldn’t,” laughed Barbara.

“She did awfully well in that little girl play you had,” said Clara Ellis, condescending to show a little real interest in the question at issue. “Did you see it, Miss Kingston?”

Miss Kingston hadn’t seen “The Little Princess” and didn’t know Roberta; but she agreed that there was no reason why any girl who was willing to take it shouldn’t have a chance to show what she could do toward satisfying Mr. Masters.

“But it isn’t that I think she will do particularly well,” Betty explained, honestly. “Only I was sorry for her because she seemed to care such a lot. Shall I stop and ask her on my way?”

Barbara said yes and Betty hurried over to the Belden. Roberta was out, but a neat sign pinned to her door promised that she would be “Back in a few minutes,” so Betty scribbled a hasty note to explain matters and hurried off again. She had not much idea that Roberta would care to try for Shylock now, but she was glad she had thought of giving her the chance. Roberta was so quiet and self-contained and so seldom expressed a wish or a preference that it was worth while taking a little trouble to please her.

“Even if there isn’t much sense in what she wants,” thought Betty, as she tramped up Main Street.

The Main Street Shylocks all lived in the same house and not one of them was in. Betty pursued them back to the campus, caught one at the library and another in chemistry “lab.,” and followed the third down town where she was discovered going into Cuyler’s for an ice. As this last captive happened to be the most promising Shylock, next to the ones that Mr. Masters had already seen, Betty led her back to the campus in triumph, too thankful at having her safe to notice that it was fully a quarter to five before they reached college hall.

Roberta was sitting by herself on a low window-seat near Miss Kingston’s door. She looked pale and frightened and hardly smiled in answer to Betty’s gay little nod and wave of the hand.

“Goodness, I hope she’ll do decently,” thought Betty, and was opening the door as softly as possible when somebody gave it a quick push from the other side. It was the great Mr. Masters coming out again.

“Oh, Miss Lewis,” he called over to Roberta, “have you learned the Portia scenes too? I forgot to ask you. Well, suppose you come over and read them to-night. We should all like to hear you.”

Betty stared in amazement; so did the Shylocks who crowded the stairs and windowledges. There was no mistaking the fact that this time the great Mr. Masters was genuinely pleased. He held the door open for Betty to pass into the office, assured Roberta once more that he should expect to see her in the evening, and went inside himself, leaving a buzz of excitement behind him and meeting a similar buzz that hushed politely as he came forward.

“Well, Miss Kingston,” he said, rubbing his hands together with an air of supreme satisfaction, “we’ve found our Shylock. I’m glad you let her in first this time. I was really getting worried. May I ask why you young ladies kept her up your sleeves so long?”

Barbara explained.

“But you must have known about her,” Mr. Masters persisted. “Why, she’s marvelous. She’d save your play for you, single-handed. Hasn’t she taken part in any of your college performances?”

Barbara explained about that too.

“Then how did she happen to come to light at all?” he demanded.

This time Barbara looked at Betty, who blushed and murmured, “I didn’t suppose she could act very much. I really didn’t.”

Mr. Masters laughed heartily at this. “Well, she seems to be a thorough mystery,” he said. “And now the only question is where we need her most, in case I don’t like your first choice in Portias any better than I did your Shylocks. We ought to have these other people in, I suppose. Of course there’s no question about Miss Lewis, but we’d better know what they can all do, especially if there are any more of Miss Wales’s dark horses among them.”

By dinner time the astonishing news had spread over the campus. Roberta Lewis was going to be Shylock. She hadn’t been in but one play since she entered college and then she took somebody’s place. Nobody had thought she would get it. Nobody knew she could act except Betty Wales. Betty found out about her somehow—she was always finding out what people could do,—and she got her in at the last minute because Mr. Masters didn’t like Jean’s acting,—or somebody didn’t. Roberta’s was magnificent. They wanted her for Portia too. Mr. Masters had said it was a great pity there weren’t two of her. How did she take it? Why, she acted shy and bored and distant, just as usual. She seemed to have expected to be Shylock!

But she wasn’t “just as usual.” She was sitting by her window in the dark, with Mary Brooks’s picture clutched tightly in one hand and her father’s in the other, and she was whispering soft little messages to them.

“Dear old daddy, you were in all the fraternities and societies, and on all the college papers and the ’varsity eight. Well, I’m on one thing now. You’ll have one little chance to be proud of me, perhaps, after all these four years.

“Now, Mary Brooks, do you see what I can do? I couldn’t write and I couldn’t be popular or prominent or a ‘star’ in any of the classes. I’m not that kind. But after all I shall be something but just one of the Clan before I leave.

“Oh, I wonder if Mary and father would like to sit together at the play.”

While Roberta was considering the probability that they would, Betty knocked her soft little knock on the door. Roberta always knew Betty’s knock.

“Come,” she called in a queer, trembly voice. How was she ever going to thank Betty for seeing what no one else saw, and helping her to stick to it and get her chance in a nice quiet way that wouldn’t make her feel awkward if she failed?

But Betty didn’t give her time to open her mouth. “You dear old thing!” she cried. “Oh, I am so happy! I never thought you’d get it. Honestly, I didn’t. I just thought you might as well try. Roberta, you ought to hear the things Mr. Masters has been saying about you.”

Roberta laughed happily. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” she said. “Didn’t you think I could get a part? You were the one who told me I ought to try.”

“Yes,” said Betty solemnly, “I thought you’d get one of the Sals probably—you know the ones I mean,—Solanio, and the others that sound like him. We call them the Sals for short, I never dreamed of your being Shylock, any more than I planned for you to be Ermengarde. You did it every bit yourself, Roberta Lewis, by just happening to come around at the right times.”

“And by coming to the right person,” added Roberta.

But Betty only laughed at her. “It’s bad enough to be blamed for things you’ve done,” she said. “I simply won’t be praised for things I haven’t done. I never was so pleased in my life. Roberta, Miss Kingston says you’re a genius. To think of my knowing a genius! I must go and tell Helen Chase Adams.”

Down-stairs Madeline was telephoning to Clara Madison, who, owing to her strong prejudice against bed-making, still lived off the campus. “A dark horse,” she explained, “is a person like Roberta Lewis. I didn’t have time to tell you this morning. Good-b——Oh! haven’t you heard? She’s going to be Shylock. No, the committee haven’t announced it yet, but Mr. Masters shouted it aloud in the corridor at college hall. Don’t forget what a dark horse is, Clara.”

The B’s, innocently supposing that Roberta was out because her windows were dark, were celebrating in Nita’s room, while they awaited her return. This meant that Babbie was doing a cake-walk with an imaginary partner, Babe a clog-dance, and Bob a highland fling, while Nita hugged her tallest vase and her prettiest teacup and besought them to stop before Mrs. Kent came to see who was tearing the house down.

Bob stopped first, though not on account of Nita’s bric-a-brac or a possible visit from Mrs. Kent.

“Nita,” she demanded breathlessly, “did you say Betty thought of Roberta?”

“Yes,” Nita assented. “Nobody else on the committee knows her at all except Rachel, and she is as surprised as the rest of us.”

“Gee!” Bob’s tone was deep with meaning. “Then I know who won’t like it.”

“Who?” Babe ended her dance to ask.

“Jean Eastman,” said Bob solemnly.

Babe gave her a disdainful glance. “How much brains do you think it takes to find that out, Bob Parker? Of course she won’t like it.”

But Bob only smiled loftily and declared that if Roberta hadn’t come in by this time they must all go straight home to dinner.