Seven o'clock came all too soon for Marjorie and Lily, as they opened their eyes at the sound of the rising bell.

"Don't you wish we could stay in bed?" yawned Marjorie, glancing at the clock.

"We can to-morrow; mama will let us have breakfast in bed every single morning, if we like."

"Oh, Lil, that sounds too good to be true! I know we'll have a wonderful time."

There were only three hours of classes; after an early luncheon, school was dismissed. Everybody took the one-o'clock train for home.

"Frieda saved me the trouble of expressing my canoe home," remarked Marjorie, when the girls were comfortably seated together in the train. "But how I wish I'd find it—and her, too!"

"Maybe we shall," said Lily. "Don't forget the fortune teller!"

"But New York's pretty big, isn't it?" Having lived all of her life in a small town, Marjorie had only a vague idea of the size of the great city.

Lily laughed good-naturedly. "Wait till you see it," she said. "It's simply tremendous—and so crowded and confusing."

"Poor Frieda!" sighed Marjorie.

Mrs. Andrews's chauffeur met the train, bringing the former's regrets at not being present in person.

"Mama's out so much," explained Lily. "Teas and charity work, you know."

As Marjorie entered the big limousine, she realized that she had never ridden in so luxurious a car before. She glanced at the soft upholstery, the bouquet of real flowers, and felt the warmth of the artificial heat. Lily's parents were obviously rich, although the girl evidently gave it little thought now. But Marjorie remembered how impressed her room-mate had been with the fact when she entered Miss Allen's, and suddenly she decided that, had she known all this, she would not have blamed her so severely.

Then the streets claimed her attention. They were filled with traffic of all kinds, which she watched silently. Her thoughts flew to Frieda Hammer; she wondered what were her impressions as she entered this great, noisy confusion, that is called New York. How would she feel herself, if she had come all alone—with no Lily to direct her, no car to meet her, no friends to entertain her? Alone, with little or no money in her purse, and no qualifications to fit her for work! She shuddered at the very idea; a sort of despair seized her, so that for the instant she suffered vicariously as acutely as if she were the other girl in the situation.

But Lily's voice brought her back to reality.

"That was the Grand Central Station, where we came in," explained the New York girl. "And this is Sixth Avenue."

"And you live in an apartment, too, don't you, Lil?" asked Marjorie, her gaze resting upon her companion. "Do you know, I've never been in an apartment!"

"It's an apartment-hotel," corrected Lily. "We don't even get our own meals!"

Half an hour later, the girls were sitting in Lily's dainty boudoir, sipping chocolate and enjoying a glorious hour of pure idleness.

"Are we doing anything to-night, Lil?" asked Marjorie, leaning back contentedly against the cushions on the window seat. "Not that I think we need to——" she hastened to add, lest her hostess might attribute her remark to impoliteness.

"Yes, we're going to the theater," replied Lily, laughingly. "It's a musical comedy. I hope you will like it."

"I'm sure I will. Do you know, Lil, I've never been in a real theater in my life!" She paused a moment, and then blurted out, unexpectedly, "Suppose Frieda should be a chorus girl! Do you think we'd recognize her, with all her paint and powder, if she were?"

Lily smiled at the other's simplicity. Evidently Marjorie had no conception of the great number of theaters in New York, or of the difficulty, for a novice, in obtaining a part in a show. And the idea of Frieda Hammer—rude, awkward, and uncouth—on the stage, was absolutely grotesque.

"I hardly think she'd be able to get the job, Marj," she replied, succeeding in hiding her amusement. But in order to forestall any more such remarks, she decided to change the subject.

"We're going to the game to-morrow," she announced, "with papa and mama, and——"

But Marjorie was only politely enthusiastic.

"We surely won't see Frieda there," she remarked. "Isn't it dreadfully expensive?"

"Not only that, but she wouldn't be interested. Of course, Frieda Hammer wouldn't understand football! But I'll tell you who will be there!"

"Who?"

"Guess!"

"The boys?"

"Yes; John Hadley and Dick Roberts!"

"Oh, I'm awfully glad!" exclaimed Marjorie. "I haven't seen John for ages."

And in the conversation that followed, the Girl Scouts' runaway ward was forgotten.

Thanksgiving day was bright and clear, and just cold enough to give a bracing tingle to the air. The boys arrived only a few minutes before the time to start for the game, and among so many people, Marjorie and John exchanged only the most formal greetings.

During the automobile ride, and later at the game, it seemed to Marjorie that John was unusually quiet. Perhaps, she decided, it was because he was with strangers,—or perhaps it was because he had changed. She knew that he was working his way through college, and she wondered whether the responsibility was weighing him down. Or perhaps, she thought, he was no longer interested in so youthful a person as herself.

But to John Hadley, Marjorie Wilkinson was the same merry, charming girl who continued to hold first place in his affections.

Mrs. Andrews invited the boys to dinner after the game, and they accepted gladly. It was not until after the meal was over, and Marjorie and John were dancing in the hotel ball-room that the girl lost her shyness and felt herself back again on the old familiar ground with him.

"May I come to see you at Christmas time?" he whispered, as they glided across the floor.

"But I'm not sure that I'll be home," replied Marjorie, thinking of Frieda Hammer, and wondering whether she might not try to trace her again at that time, if she failed now.

"Are you going far away?" he pursued, in a woeful tone.

"I don't know. But you can write!"

The young people danced until the first intermission, when Mrs. Andrews rose to go, and the girls, after saying good-bye to the boys, accompanied her to the apartment.

"I looked at every waitress in the dining-room," said Marjorie, when she and Lily were alone in their room, "and I tried to see all the people I could on the streets to-day, but none of them looked like Frieda!"

"Oh, Marj! You're hopeless!" replied Lily, in exasperation. "Here I expected you to rave about John Hadley, or at least the football game, and the very minute he's gone, you begin on that girl again!"

"Do I bore you, Lil? Or do I seem unappreciative?" asked Marjorie, penitently.

"No, you old dear!" laughed Lily, relenting. "By the way, what is it you want to do to-morrow?"

"Go shopping!" replied Marjorie happily, for the idea of the novel experience was pleasing to her.

Mrs. Wilkinson had given her daughter some money with which to go shopping, and the girls planned their trip for Friday. Mrs. Andrews decided to send the chauffeur with them, allowing them to go otherwise unaccompanied, for she knew how much pleasure it would afford them to go alone.

Early after lunch the following day, the girls started on their expedition. After they left the car and entered the shops, Marjorie wanted to proceed slowly, stopping everywhere to look at displays and to examine the beautiful things spread alluringly before their eyes. She really bought little; the experience was so new to her that she could scarcely make up her mind what to choose.

At quarter after four Lily looked at her watch.

"I'm dead, Marj!" she announced. "Let's go and get some hot chocolate, and then go home."

"All right," agreed Marjorie reluctantly. "But I sort of hate to leave. By the way, Lil, have you been noticing the salesgirls?"

"Not 'specially. Why?"

"I thought one of them might be Frieda."

"If you mention Frieda Hammer again," threatened Lily, "when I get back to school, I'll go poison that fortune teller for getting you so worked up."

"Oh, please don't, Lil!" begged Marjorie, good-naturedly.

She followed her hostess out of the brilliantly lighted department store, across the street, and into a cozy, softly lighted tea-room. The contrast between the glaring, noisy shops and this quiet, restful retreat worked wonders with the tired girls. They seemed almost immediately to imbibe the peaceful atmosphere, and to become refreshed.

"It's lovely!" exclaimed Marjorie, refusing even to look at the menu. "Anything you order will suit me."

Although Marjorie had decided not to plague Lily again with the mention of Frieda, she had by no means forgotten her. Accordingly, she followed the proceeding she had adopted upon every occasion since she had entered New York; she looked carefully at every young girl she saw, hoping that it might prove to be Frieda.

As soon as her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, she peered eagerly,—almost rudely, she was afraid—into the faces of the waitresses. Suddenly, her heart stood still; at the far corner, near the swinging door leading to the kitchen, stood a girl bearing a striking resemblance to Frieda! Could Marjorie be dreaming—or was it possible that the runaway had a double? She dared not trust her own eyes.

"Look, Lil!" she whispered. "Could that be Frieda, there?"

Lily followed the direction indicated by Marjorie, and saw a slim girl in black, wearing a waitress's cap and apron. The girl was neat, and her hair was tidy; indeed, one would have to stretch the imagination to picture her as the one of the troop's adoption. And yet her features—and something about her bearing were decidedly like Frieda.

"Oh, Frieda Hammer would never get a job in a place like this," remarked Lily, discouragingly. "They only employ refined girls here!"

Still not daunted, however, Marjorie half rose from her seat, but just at that moment the waitress in question disappeared with a tray of dishes.

Lily gave her order for hot chocolate with whipped cream, and fancy cakes, to the waitress who stood at their table. "Does that suit you, Marj?" she inquired.

"Yes, thanks!" replied Marjorie; but at that moment she would have agreed to corned-beef and cabbage. She watched eagerly for the girl to reappear; finally she was rewarded by seeing the two waitresses enter together.

As her own girl came towards them, she leaned over and asked earnestly,

"Can you tell me the name of the waitress—over there?"

"Jennie Perkins," replied the girl, quietly.

Marjorie's face fell; she must be mistaken. Then an idea came to her; perhaps it was Frieda, under an assumed name!

"Has she worked here long?" pursued Marjorie.

"I think so—but I've only been here a week myself, and she was here when I came!"

The girl had disappeared again, and Marjorie turned reluctantly to her refreshment. She kept watching the swinging door, hoping that the girl would reappear and give her an opportunity to question her. But she did not return before Marjorie and Lily had finished their chocolate, so they were obliged to leave the shop, as much in the dark as ever.

The remaining two days passed without further adventure, and on Sunday evening they were back again at Miss Allen's.

"I wonder whether the fortune teller was mistaken, after all?" thought Marjorie.