Marjorie and Lily were seated in the old-fashioned, comfortably furnished parlor in the home of Mrs. Johnson, that motherly woman who, through her interest in both the Girl Scouts and their ward, had promised to board Frieda for six dollars a week. The girls had come down to see her to venture a little plan of theirs, and Marjorie was relieved to find her so easy to become acquainted with. Mrs. Johnson was just the sort of person—placid, sympathetic, jolly—that any normal girl would love. This fact, thought Marjorie, ought to help them a great deal in their success with Frieda.

"You see," explained Marjorie, idly running her finger along the surface of the horse-hair sofa on which she was seated, "we want to make Frieda enjoy herself from the very beginning. Some of the freshmen at Miss Allen's were pretty homesick at first, and we want to avoid all that with her. For she really belongs to us, you know; we're responsible for her!"

"Yes, yes," agreed Mrs. Johnson, still in doubt regarding the purpose of the girl's remarks. Was Marjorie afraid that she, Mrs. Johnson, would not treat her kindly?

"But what——?" she began.

"What I am trying to tell you about," laughed Marjorie, interrupting her, "is that, provided you are willing, we want to have a little surprise party here for her when she arrives. We thought we'd order cake and ice-cream, and have everybody hide somewhere in the house. Then, when Miss Phillips and Frances and Frieda come in, you suggest that she go to her room, and take off her things, and come down again.

"While she's upstairs, we'll come out of our hiding-places and play the piano, and sing her a welcome song. Ethel Todd, one of the Scouts, has written a dandy—a parody on 'Jingle Bells'!"

Mrs. Johnson beamed happily.

"Indeed, I do heartily approve of your plan, my dear," she said. "Now won't you and your friend"—she rose from her seat—"come up to see her room? I wish I could have put her on the second floor, but you know my father and mother live with me, and they demand the first consideration."

Mrs. Johnson led the way up two flights of stairs and into a little room with a gabled roof. The room itself, the curtains, the rag rug, the bed, and the old fashioned bureau, were very neat and clean, but the whole effect of the furnishing was too bare to allow the room to be regarded as really attractive. Marjorie wondered what it would seem like to Frieda, unused as she was to luxury of any sort.

"It's awfully nice," she said with sincerity. "I'm sure Frieda will like it."

"I hope she does!" sighed Mrs. Johnson; "but you never can tell about young people these days."

When Saturday finally came, there was great excitement among the members of the Girl Scout troop. They felt like people who are about to adopt a child, so interested were they in the girl's welfare. Ruth alone was indifferent. She refused to believe that any good would come of the whole project. Some of the Scouts thought she harbored resentment against Frieda for disclosing her deceit in borrowing the baby at camp. Ethel Todd, always suspicious of Ruth, thought that she naturally was hostile toward any scheme in which Marjorie was deeply interested.

But Ruth's opposition in reality was caused by neither of these things; for once her reasons were impersonal. She really doubted Frieda's ability to appreciate what was being done for her, and though she could not exactly explain why, she felt positive that the girl would betray the troop's confidence, and make them wish that they had never considered the undertaking.

A dull, dreary rain on Saturday morning seemed to presage failure for the girls' plans at the very start. It was always dismal, Marjorie thought, to go anywhere in the rain, but especially to a new town. Frieda would receive a bad impression of the place from the beginning, and, if she had any tendency toward homesickness, the inclemency of the weather would only help to intensify it.

"I certainly am glad we planned this party, Lil," she observed, as the girls were donning their Scout uniforms. "That will probably be the only bright spot in the day for Frieda."

"You forget," said Lily reprovingly, "that Frieda is to be met by our Captain!"

"That's right, Lil! She's lucky!"

She looked dreamily out of the window, not seeing the rain, but thinking of the first time Miss Phillips had talked with her. From the very start she had meant more to Marjorie than any of the sorority girls.

"And yet," she added wistfully, "Miss Phillips didn't seem able to make much impression upon either Frieda or her mother before. Oh, I do hope Ruth is mistaken!"

At half-past two, fourteen Girl Scouts, all in uniform, were concealed on the first floor of Mrs. Johnson's house. Two of the girls were in the cellar-way, three in the roomy kitchen, two under the dining-room table, four behind chairs and the sofa in the living-room, one underneath the sofa, and two in the dining-room closet. While they tried not to become hilarious, for they expected their guests at any moment now, suppressed whispers and giggles were heard from time to time from all parts of the downstairs.

Mrs. Johnson, apparently the only person in the room, sat in a chair beside the table, knitting a white sweater for Frieda. Marjorie, sprawled at full length under the sofa, was making vain attempts to keep up a conversation with Lily and Ethel, who were behind it.

Suddenly a step was heard on the porch, and instantly a hush fell upon the room. The girls in the dining-room and kitchen became silent, too, as Mrs. Johnson answered the bell. But the Scouts' hearts fell as they distinguished the deep tones of a masculine voice.

"Michael Doyle, the plumber, told me to come here and look at the kitchen sink," they heard. "I'm his helper. Didn't you send for someone, Mrs. Johnson?"

"Why, to be sure!" replied their hostess genially, opening the door to admit the man. The girls remained in their hiding places, and only with great effort suppressed their desire to giggle. Mrs. Johnson led the way to the kitchen, where she explained the cause of the difficulty to the man.

In the meantime, more steps were heard outside; the hearts of the concealed girls beat all the more wildly with excitement because of the false alarm they had just experienced.

It was evident, after a moment or two of silence, that Mrs. Johnson had not heard the bell. Probably she had gone down the cellar with the plumber. Marjorie was debating in her own mind whether she ought not to creep out of her hiding place and open the door, for the day was too disagreeable to keep anyone outside longer than necessary, when Miss Phillips tried the knob, and, finding that it turned, she opened the door and walked in. Frieda followed, and then Frances.

Frieda Hammer, a girl of fourteen or fifteen, was dressed in an old-fashioned woolen suit of a style of nearly ten years back. Its bedraggled, uneven skirt reached down to her ankles, while the sleeves of the coat came far short of her wrists. Her hair was arranged in an exaggerated fashion, with huge ear-puffs, according to her idea of the latest mode; and on her head was a dirty straw hat, trimmed with big artificial roses. She slouched into the room, dragging her muddy feet over the carpet, and threw herself into Mrs. Johnson's chair.

She glanced around the room with a look of the utmost disdain; then closed her jaw tightly, causing her lower lip to protrude, as is often the habit with persons of sullen dispositions. Marjorie caught sight of her attitude and could hardly repress a sigh of dismay; then she espied Frances, looking nervous and unhappy, and her last hope vanished. Ruth must be right after all!

Miss Phillips sank into a chair opposite to Frieda, as if she were both mentally and physically exhausted. Then, breaking the silence at last, she remarked, in a tone which she tried to make pleasant,

"It's nice to be home, isn't it?"

But she received no reply from the girl. Her sullen expression never changed; it might seem that she had not heard Miss Phillips' remark.

"I guess Mrs. Johnson will be here in a minute," the latter added, cheerfully. "And then you can go to your room and wash."

Still there was no word or sign from Freida. "She certainly isn't very appreciative," thought Marjorie; "but maybe she's homesick."

"Would you like to try on your new things?" asked Miss Phillips.

With a shrug of the utmost indifference, Frieda replied,

"I don't care!"

"You're not a bit homesick, are you, Frieda?" asked Frances, more, it would seem, as if to make conversation, than because she really thought there was any likelihood of this contingency.

The girl regarded her questioner scornfully.

"For them folks?" she asked sarcastically. "I don't want to see them no more!"

Frances sighed—and surrendered. Ever since she and her Captain had met the country girl, she had tried to be friendly and sympathetic; in every instance Frieda had repulsed her in this rude manner. At first Frances had felt hurt; with a great deal of effort she had kept back the tears that the sharp replies would bring dangerously near to the surface. Then, too, the girl had been so outrageously ungrateful; she had almost made a scene in a store where Miss Phillips tried to buy a ten-dollar dress, and had declared that she would never wear it! Finally, they had compromised on a dark skirt and two middy blouses; but Frieda took no pains to hide her resentment at the cheapness of the clothing. Many of her remarks had been absolutely insulting; and now Frances was utterly disgusted with her, and wished that Pansy troop had taken Ruth Henry's advice, and let Frieda Hammer stay where she was till the end of her days.

Just at that moment Mrs. Johnson appeared with a great, warm smile of welcome on her motherly face. Surely, Frances thought, this would have melted the hardest heart. She and Miss Phillips both rose at her entrance; but Frieda sat perfectly still, and gave no indication that she was aware of the other's presence.

"Stand up, Frieda," commanded Miss Phillips, pleasantly, and the girl shuffled to her feet, still keeping her eyes fixed on the piano.

"Mrs. Johnson, this is Frieda Hammer. Frieda, you are very lucky to have such a lovely home, and such a kind, adopted mother! Won't you shake hands?"

The girl thrust out her hand awkwardly, still avoiding the eyes of the older woman. "A bad sign"—thought Mrs. Johnson, unconsciously—"she never seems to look anyone in the eyes."

"I will take you to your room, my dear," she said. "Then you can come down again and have something to eat!"

This last remark was made with a side glance at Miss Phillips, and a twinkle in her eye. But for once the latter did not respond; she was so discouraged and mentally worn-out, that she had completely forgotten the surprise party.

"Don't want nuthing!" protested Frieda, rudely. And, seizing her bag, she followed Mrs. Johnson up the stairs.

As soon as she was out of sight, the girls began to move cautiously from their hiding places. But suddenly they all stood perfectly still, arrested by the unbelievable words they now heard, which Frieda literally shouted at kind Mrs. Johnson.

"You ain't a-going to put me in the attic!" Her bag fell to the floor with a bang. "I didn't come here to be no servant girl! I knew there was a trick to it!"

"But, my dear——" Mrs. Johnson's soft voice pleaded in words that were not distinguishable to the girls below.

By this time the Scouts were gathered about the piano. Frances sank on the sofa and buried her face in her hands, and Miss Phillips sighed deeply. Marjorie looked frightened, as if something dreadful were about to happen. Ruth alone was unaffected; she had been right from the first!

"Oh, Ruth!" cried Frances, forgetting all about the surprise party. "If we only had taken your advice!" Her voice died in a wail.

"Sh!" cautioned Marjorie. "Oh, girls, don't let's give up! Please! Let's try our song. Maybe that—and the ice-cream——"

But to her dismay, she received no word of encouragement from Miss Phillips. Their Captain seemed to have reached the lowest depths of despair.

Ethel, however, struck the chord, and the girls chimed in weakly. Then, the music, strengthening their hopes as it progressed, made them more cheerful. Loudly, they brought out the words of the chorus:

and they fairly shouted the name in hope of evoking some response.

But none came; in five minutes Mrs. Johnson reappeared with wet eyes. She felt so sorry for the Scouts.

"It's no use, girls," she said, sadly; "she wouldn't come down. And when I stepped out into the hall to show her the big closet for her wraps, she locked the door in my face!"

Marjorie burst into tears and hid her face on her room-mate's shoulder. She felt as if she had never been more disappointed, even when she failed to make the Scout troop.

"Don't cry, dear," said Mrs. Johnson, "she'll come around in time. Now let's have the party, anyway. Suppose you change it, and have it in honor of me instead! Day after to-morrow is my birthday!"

Marjorie looked up, smiling through her tears; and the girls all went out to prepare the refreshments. Miss Phillips flashed Mrs. Johnson a grateful look; the tact and good sense of the older woman had prevented the misfortune from becoming a tragedy.