If Marjorie was disappointed at the failure of her plan, she was tremendously elated over her room-mate's election to the class presidency. Lily Andrews was not a girl who was naturally popular like Doris Sands, or Marjorie herself. She had fought valiantly for everything she had achieved, and her triumph, therefore, was all the more precious.

For an instant, while the vote was being taken, Ruth had thought of the Lily Andrews that had first appeared at Miss Allen's—extravagantly overdressed, noticeably fat, and crude in every respect. She had smiled confidently at the picture, scorning the idea that such a girl could ever stand a chance against her.

But Ruth had not counted on the fairness of the girls at Miss Allen's: they thought of their new president, not as she had been, but as she was now; and because Lily had put aside her extravagant taste, had resolutely trained herself down by self-denial, and had even done creditably in athletics, she was greatly admired. Besides this, Lily Andrews was genuine—and so loyal! Moreover, all the girls, even those who were not Scouts and therefore knew nothing about Ruth's disgraceful trick against Marjorie the previous year, often had cause to doubt the former's sincerity.

Lily herself was too much overcome with surprise to realize it all at once. She walked out of the room with Marjorie's arm around her, still under the impression that she must be dreaming.

When they reached their own room Lily sank down into a chair, exhausted from the excitement.

"Marj, what ever made you nominate me?" she cried. "I'm not the stuff presidents are made of—like you and Doris!"

"Oh, but you are—or you wouldn't have gotten it!"

"I got it because they didn't put anybody good against me! I had meant to nominate you; but before I had a chance, Barbara moved that the nominations be closed. But you led me into it—now you must tell me what to do!"

She looked at her room-mate imploringly, as if she were already bowed down with the sense of responsibility.

"I'm sorry, Lil, but I can't tell you," laughed Marjorie. "You know I've never been president."

"That's true! Oh, say, Marj, wasn't Ruth the surprised girl when she heard I got it? I couldn't help watching her face, and I nearly died!"

Marjorie, too, had enjoyed the situation immensely; for while she usually disliked seeing anyone disappointed, Ruth had been so over-confident, and so scornful of Lily the preceding year, that she could not help being glad of the outcome. Then, a sudden thought struck her.

"You asked me what I'd do, Lil," she said. "I'd advise you to enlist Ruth's help!"

"Ruth Henry?" This in consternation.

"Yes; for this reason: she has had a big disappointment in not being elected herself, and I know Ruth well enough to realize that when she is disappointed, she often gets spiteful. So, if you take my advice, you will make her your friend before she has a chance to become your enemy!"

Lily weighed carefully the suggestion put forth by her room-mate. She nodded her head slightly in her approval of the plan.

"I guess you're right," she said. "I had, of course, thought of consulting Doris, and I suppose I might as well include Ruth. It can't do any harm."

The next day was one of those beautiful mild days that would seem to belong rather to summer than to autumn. The windows all over the school were wide open; the sound of lawn-mowers could be heard in the distance; the drowsy warmth of the air made the girls think of Commencement time.

Resolutely putting aside her desire to be lazy, and oppressed by the thought of her official duties, Lily Andrews decided to devote the afternoon to a consultation with Doris Sands, the out-going president.

But Marjorie shared no such cares. Freed from hockey practice, and planning to study her lessons in the evening, her thoughts flew to her canoe—that beautiful prize she had won at the summer camp. What could possibly be more delightful than an afternoon spent in paddling and drifting about the lake, with her copy of Alfred Noyes' poems to glance into now and then? The idea was so alluring that she could hardly force herself to sit through luncheon.

As a rule Marjorie Wilkinson was a sociable being—she enjoyed other girls' companionship, and possessed an unusual quality of friendliness. But to-day she felt dreamy; she longed to get away from everybody, where conversation would be unnecessary, and where she could give herself up to her own drowsy imaginings. For she had many happy things to think about. That very morning she had received a letter—nothing thrilling in it, but just an interesting, boyish account of activities at Princeton—whose signature had made her heart beat more rapidly. For it was from John Hadley, the boy whom she had liked and admired most of all the Boy Scouts the previous year. The very fact that he should still think of her amidst all the rush of his busy college life flattered her, and set her to dreaming.

So she found her book and started for the lake, only to remember, when she had gone half of the distance, that she had left her paddle in the closet.

"I believe I'll leave it in the canoe after this," she decided; "nobody would ever think of taking the canoe, and it would be so much less trouble. And I'd probably go out oftener if I didn't have to come up here for the paddle every time."

She hurried across the sun-lit campus, through the trees, to the little lake. There under a weeping-willow, lay the canoe.

A thrill of delight passed over her as she turned the canoe right side up; the possession of such a beautiful object had never lost its charm. She wondered whether she was selfish in enjoying it alone, but dismissed the idea when she recalled the fact that Lily and Doris and Ruth would all be occupied with their own affairs.

The picturesque scene—only a tiny lake in comparison with the one at camp—and the smooth, gliding motion of the canoe were in perfect harmony with the girl's mood and the quiet, peaceful day. She began to hum softly to the rhythmic dip, dip of the paddle into the still water.

"If John Hadley were only at Episcopal Academy now," she mused, "maybe we could sneak some good times!" Then she fell to dreaming that he suddenly appeared on the edge of the lake, and that they spent the afternoon together. But when the thought recalled to her mind the consequences of that other stolen meeting, at camp, she actually laughed aloud.

Her laughter evidently startled some one on the bank, for there immediately followed a gasp, and then a suppressed sob. Marjorie stopped paddling.

"Who's there?" she called, softly. "Can I do anything to help——"

A very mussed, woe-begone figure emerged from behind a clump of rhododendrons. Her hair streamed in her eyes, her summer dress bore evidence of a careless position, and her tear-stained cheeks of weeping. It was Alice Endicott, the little freshman whom Ruth had made such fun of at the sophomore reception. And she was evidently in the deepest distress.

"Alice!" exclaimed Marjorie, in surprise. "Why, what is the matter?"

"Nothing!" sobbed the girl forlornly. Then, "Everything!"

Both remarks, so entirely opposite, were no doubt correct. Nothing really was the matter, and yet everything was wrong; for Alice Endicott was hopelessly homesick.

Marjorie ran the nose of her canoe aground upon the low bank and begged Alice to get in. Hardly knowing what she was about, the younger girl climbed into the bow and sank down facing Marjorie.

"Now tell me all about it," said Marjorie, in the most sympathetic tone imaginable. She thought of her own first days at the school, when Ruth, obviously so popular, had totally neglected her, and when her own room-mate, Lily Andrews, had seemed impossible. Remorseful, too, because of her own selfish happiness, she felt more eager than ever to comfort the lonely freshman. But it was a difficult matter, she knew.

"I want to go home," sobbed Alice, with her handkerchief at her eyes.

"No, no!" protested Marjorie. "Please give us another chance. Don't you like it a bit here?"

"I hate it!" exclaimed the other, with more emphasis than Marjorie thought her capable of. "You're the only girl who's been even half decent to me."

"And I'm ashamed of myself," muttered Marjorie sadly. "But please forgive us all, Alice; we didn't realize how you felt. Won't you, please—and wait a day or two while you decide whether you want to stay or not?"

Alice stopped crying; she was really surprised at Marjorie's sincerity in assuming the blame herself. Still, she pursued her same line of argument.

"There's nothing here that I can't get in school near home."

Marjorie was silent; was this accusation true? Was Miss Allen's really nicer than any other school, or was it merely her own opinion? She met the question fairly, searching her mind truthfully for an answer. At last she found one: in the eyes of even unprejudiced observers, it must appear to excel all other schools—because of its Girl Scout troop!

And so she replied to Alice's challenge with a description of the troop, and of the big organization of which it was a part, telling of its principles and its aims; relating stories of the hikes, the parties, the good times with the Boy Scouts, and—best of all—of the wonderful camping trip during the vacation. She told her about the contest, that the very canoe in which they were sitting was a reward from the Girl Scouts.

"So you see," concluded Marjorie, "you can have a great big aim here, and you can begin right now to do such good work that you'll be a Scout as soon as the first report comes out!"

"But——" said Alice slowly, dipping her hand idly into the water—"but suppose I don't make it!"

Marjorie drew a quick breath. Suppose she did not! Suppose, like herself, she should lose out! Then, in a flash, Marjorie became aware of a great truth: the value of human suffering. Up to this time, she could never quite see any good in her former disappointment; now she realized that it made her akin to all the others in the world who had suffered and would suffer again. She could understand, and she could comfort Alice from the depths of her own experience, just as Miss Phillips had comforted her.

"And if you missed out, you would try again!" she said, proceeding to recount the story of her own failure, being careful, however, to leave Ruth's part out of the narrative.

As the sun sank lower, the girls talked on, until Marjorie noticed that it was time to dress for dinner. Alice seemed quite happy now, and even smiled at the dirty smudges on her nose which she saw reflected in the tiny mirror on the bottom of Marjorie's powder puff.

"I guess I was pretty silly," she admitted, as the girls strolled across the campus together. "But my room-mate, Esther Taylor, never pays the slightest attention to me, and I was pretty lonely. But I won't be again." She smiled shyly up into Marjorie's face. "For I know now that I have a friend."

"Indeed you have," assured the older girl, pressing her hand. "And you have a big aim before you. I shall be terribly disappointed, Alice, if you don't make the Girl Scout troop!"

"I will make it!" she replied resolutely; and Marjorie believed her.

"Promise to come to see me every day," urged Marjorie, as Alice turned to leave her at the door of her room.

"I'd love to! But you'll get tired of me, I'm afraid."

"No, I won't! And remember—you're my freshman!"

"And it all goes to prove," she thought as she closed the door of her room, "that Ruth may block my plans, but she can't influence the real me! And I've really won, after all!"