When the disappointed girls left Mrs. Johnson's home at the conclusion of the surprise party, Marjorie probably looked most dejected of all. She resolutely avoided Ruth's society, feeling that she could not bear her "I told you so" attitude; instead, she sought Lily, who seemed to understand how she felt. The girls walked in silence; Lily knew her room-mate well enough now to realize that talking would not help, and she discreetly refrained from intruding upon her thoughts.

When they reached their own room, Marjorie threw herself upon the bed with a sob. Lily sat down beside her and put her arm around her neck.

"Marj, please don't take it so hard," she begged. "It won't do any good."

"Of course it won't," Marjorie replied, brokenly. "But I cared so much about her liking us."

"Well, she may, yet. Maybe she was frightened—and homesick. Why don't you go down to see her all by yourself?"

The suggestion brought Marjorie a ray of hope. She dried her eyes, and squeezed Lily's hand gratefully.

"I certainly will do that!" she exclaimed. "Thank you for suggesting it."

The following day, Sunday, was mild and beautiful; Marjorie was so glad to see that the rain was gone, and so hopeful about her new project, that she felt quite cheerful again. She selected one of her prettiest dresses—a pale pink voile—and also wore her pink silk sweater which matched it so perfectly.

"I won't bother with a hat," she thought. "It's so warm, and it will seem more informal without one."

It was only a few minutes' walk to Mrs. Johnson's house, and she reached it in no time. With trembling fingers, she rang the doorbell. The woman herself answered the summons.

"How do you do, Mrs. Johnson?" she said pleasantly. And then, just as if she were paying an ordinary call on one of her own friends, "Is Frieda in?"

Mrs. Johnson smiled. "Yes. Do come in, and sit down—Marjorie—isn't that your name? Let's talk a little first, and then I'll call her."

Marjorie sat down upon the edge of the sofa, and leaned forward eagerly. She was curious for news of this strange girl, who so baffled everybody, even Miss Phillips and kind Mrs. Johnson.

"She isn't civilized, Marjorie," said the older woman. "That's exactly what it is; she has lived with people all of her life who have no conception of morals, or manners, or training, and she simply acts like a sort of mental savage."

"But there were the Brubakers—her father worked for Mr. Brubaker. Don't you suppose——?"

"No; I don't suppose she ever saw anything of them. She is used to wandering about just as she pleases. Whatever education she has acquired was probably beaten into her by some rough, country schoolmaster."

Marjorie sighed hopelessly.

Mrs. Johnson read her thoughts. "But it isn't hopeless, my dear," she added softly. "Frieda is a human being, with a soul. And she is young, too. If we can keep her here, away from her parents' bad influence, we may yet be able to civilize her. Don't give up yet!"

Marjorie was unconsciously encouraged by these words. But she wanted more definite details of the girl's behavior.

"I sent her supper to her last night," said Mrs. Johnson, "by Annie, the girl who comes in to help me cook and wash dishes. She said that Frieda opened the door and snarled at her something which she could not understand, except the word 'servant,' and snatched the food and slammed the door in her face.

"She did not appear at breakfast, but I heard her go out for a walk; and when she came back, I was home from church and had dinner on the table. I asked her to come in, and she followed me to the dining-room.

"When I introduced her to father and mother, and Mr. Johnson, she paid not the slightest attention. Her manners at the table were terrible; she evidently knew nothing about the use of a knife and fork. She ate greedily, as if she were very hungry. And, by the way, I think the girl is decidedly undernourished.

"Immediately after dinner she went to her room again. Now, if you want to go up and see her, you can do as you like. You know the facts."

Marjorie jumped to her feet.

"Oh, I will go!" she cried impulsively. "There must be some good in her."

"Yes," agreed Mrs. Johnson, "or else she would not have consented to come here."

Marjorie lowered her eyelids. She was thinking of that remark of Ruth's: that Frieda had only seized the opportunity as another chance to steal something. But she resolutely suppressed the idea; she did not want to antagonize Mrs. Johnson to any greater extent against the girl.

Up the steps she ran, two at a time, so that she might not have time to lose courage and change her mind. She knocked at the door of the room.

"Who is it?" This, gruffly.

"It's Marjorie—Marjorie Wilkinson! The girl with the canoe. I want to take you for a ride in my boat!" This last proposal was made on the inspiration of the moment.

To her surprise, she heard Frieda step forward and unlock the door.

"Whew!" she whistled, gazing at Marjorie's costume in open-mouthed amazement. "Some dress!"

Marjorie smiled, all the while noting with pleasure the changed appearance of the other. For Frieda wore the pleated skirt and middy that Miss Phillips had bought for her the day before, and her hair was arranged quite simply in the style Frances Wright adopted, without, of course, the artificial ear-puffs.

"How nice you look, Frieda!" she observed, admiringly.

"None of that!" shouted the other girl. "This dress makes me sick, when I look at yours!"

Marjorie perceived the jealousy in Frieda's eyes, and hastened to change the subject.

"Will you go out in my canoe with me now?"

"Nope! Not in this rig!"

"But Frieda——"

"If you like it so much," she interrupted, "you wear it—and give me yours!"

Now Marjorie's pink voile was one of her favorite dresses, and she had counted upon wearing it in the evenings all winter. But it was not really expensive, and she felt that she would gladly part with it if it would effect a reconciliation. The sweater would be a weightier matter; it had been a birthday gift from her father. Still, she would sacrifice that, too, on the altar of this, her greatest desire of the present time.

She considered making a bargain and extracting a promise of friendship from the girl, but this, she felt, might antagonize her. So she merely said,

"All right, Frieda; but you can't wear this to school. I'll wear yours back to the dormitory, and then I'll put on another dress and give this back to you again."

Frieda could hardly believe her ears when she saw Marjorie actually take off her sweater and start to unfasten her dress. Then she clapped her hands with delight; she was not so uncivilized as to lack the feminine characteristic of love of pretty clothing.

The change was effected quickly, and the girls walked out together and back to Miss Allen's where Marjorie changed the dress; and then to the lake. Marjorie tried to talk naturally, but, only receiving monosyllables as replies, finally gave up. Untying the canoe, and taking the paddle from the bottom, she bade Frieda get in, and pushed off.

"Ain't it locked?" asked Frieda in astonishment.

"No, everybody here is honest. And people from outside the school don't know about it."

They drifted on, Marjorie glancing now and then at her companion, who sat back lazily—in fact, almost contentedly—watching the sky and the water, and listening to the rhythmic dip of the paddle. A wave of great happiness surged over Marjorie; she felt that she had progressed farther than she would have dreamed possible, after the previous day's experience.

"Frieda, will you come to our Japanese party on Friday evening, if I give you a ticket?" asked Marjorie, as she left the girl at Mrs. Johnson's.

"Maybe. What's it going to be like?"

Marjorie explained the plans, but she saw that they conveyed little meaning to the country girl. Nevertheless, she resolved to send her a ticket.

It happened that Friday night, which was the last of September, was clear and mild; the stars twinkled brightly over the pretty scene at the edge of the lake. Japanese lanterns were strung all about the trees, and the tables, containing refreshments, were decorated with gay autumn flowers. Robed in Japanese kimonas, with long, Oriental pins in their hair, the girls flitted about from place to place, welcoming their guests and serving the dainty food. Out on the lake, where Marjorie was drifting in her canoe, a victrola was playing soft music.

"The boat reminds one of Venice," observed Miss Allen, who was one of the first to arrive. "I believe I'd enjoy a ride!"

Lily, to whom the remark was directed, whistled softly to her room-mate. Instantly, the girl turned around, and made for the shore.

"Venice or Japan, whichever you like, Miss Allen," laughed Lily, "just so long as we make the money—for the cause is a good one, you know."

Teachers, girls from the school, people from the village,—a larger crowd than the Scouts had dared to hope for—continued to arrive. Charmed by the novel idea, they bought lavishly; and few escaped without first visiting the fortune-telling booth presided over by Miss Phillips, or taking a ride in one of the row-boats, or in Marjorie's canoe.

All the while, however, Marjorie watched anxiously for the appearance of Frieda. Would the girl disappoint her? Marjorie had been so busy during the week that she had not been able to go to see her, but Mrs. Johnson had told Miss Phillips that Frieda had gone regularly to school, and that her teacher reported progress.

Towards nine o'clock, however, just as Marjorie was landing her canoe with two of the teachers who had been for a ride, she caught sight of a familiar pink dress.

Ruth, who had joined their group in order to serve the guests with ice-cream, also noticed the newcomer.

"I wonder who that is!" remarked Ruth, vainly attempting to identify the girl in the dim light. "She's all dolled up, too!"

A smile spread over Marjorie's face, and she waved her hand in welcome. Frieda advanced slowly, as if she were not sure that she desired to join the group. When she was within half a dozen steps of them, Ruth recognized her.

"Frieda Hammer!" announced Ruth, in a stage whisper that was perfectly audible to the girl herself. Then, turning to the others, and laughing, she added, "Hold on to your jewelry! Nothing's safe——"

"Sh!" cautioned Marjorie, in the deepest distress. "Do be careful, Ruth. She'll hear you!"

But the girl had evidently overheard the remark, for a hard look came into her eyes. She grit her teeth fiercely, but said nothing; then, turning swiftly around, she disappeared among the trees.

The older women, sensing a scene, sauntered away; but Ruth stood where she was, smiling defiantly. Marjorie might have cried, had she not been so angry.

"It's all your fault!" she exclaimed; "Frieda was just getting friendly, and here you had to spoil it! Just the way you spoil everything I try to do!"

"Calm yourself, Marj!" remarked Ruth, with a superior air. "She can't feel things like we do! Besides, she is a thief, so why not call her one?"

"Would you like to have all your sins thrown in your face?" retorted Marjorie. "And you know——"

"May I have a canoe ride?" said a pleasant voice behind them, and the girls turned around to see Mrs. Johnson, with her husband, standing near them.

"Certainly," murmured Marjorie, ashamed of her loss of temper, and hoping that the others had not heard the angry words. Ruth turned away, and Marjorie once more paddled out on the lake. But the evening was spoiled for her.

For Frieda Hammer had again been antagonized!