The Christmas holidays had always meant a great deal to Marjorie. There was not only the joy of the holiday season, and of giving and receiving presents, but the pleasure of seeing the family and her old friends again, of going to parties, and of entertaining. The preceeding year she had given a house-party to the freshmen and sophomore members of the sorority to which she belonged at that time, and they had all had a lovely time. Ruth, who had never been a member of the secret society, had been left out—a proceeding which so angered her as to cause her to seek in some way to get even with Marjorie. And this had been the beginning of all the trouble! Now as she looked back upon it, the whole affair seemed childish; she realized that whatever parties she gave in the future would include Ruth.

Marjorie's mother had told her that she might invite Lily, or any other friend, to spend part or all of the holidays with her; and she had received a lovely invitation from Doris's mother to go to their home for Christmas week. But she had resolutely refused all these suggestions; she had other plans—not of a social nature.

It was with this purpose in mind that she visited Miss Phillips the night of the children's party.

"Could you possibly spare me a day during your holiday, Miss Phillips?" she asked. "I want to go and see Frieda's mother."

"Why, what an idea!" exclaimed the teacher in surprise. "But do you think she knows where her daughter is?"

"I think she must know something. And maybe she could tell us why Frieda ran away. And——" Marjorie paused, shyly,—"and I want to get word to her if I can that I don't mind her taking my canoe!"

"Marjorie, you're a strange girl!" remarked Miss Phillips, looking at her quizzically. Then, "But have you asked your parents' consent?"

"Yes; papa said he would drive us over. But he also said that he wouldn't let me go without you. And he was afraid it would be asking too much of you!"

"Not at all. I could easily arrange to meet you. What day do you want to go?"

"Whatever day suits you best."

Miss Phillips went to her desk and consulted an engagement pad.

"How about Friday—a week from to-morrow?" she suggested. "Then, if it should rain, we could go Saturday."

"Fine!" concluded Marjorie, rising to go. But Miss Phillips detained her for a moment.

"Marjorie, I want to thank you for your lovely gift. It was sweet of you to do all that work for me."

The girl smiled, delighted that her favorite teacher was pleased. In fact, Miss Phillips was not only her favorite teacher, but the only one in whom she took any interest.

"I'm glad you liked it, Miss Phillips," she said, as she turned to leave the office.

Marjorie and Ruth rode home in the train together. As soon as the girls were away from Miss Allen's, and there was no longer any rivalry raging between them, Ruth became her old self again, and expected to have Marjorie once more as her best friend. But Marjorie was not to be so easily won.

"Mother writes that there's a new family moved in next door to us," remarked Ruth, "and she says that the son—a boy a little older than we are, seems very nice. I thought maybe I'd ask him over some night during Christmas week, if you and Jack can come, too. We could play bridge, and dance a little."

"That would be lovely," murmured Marjorie, in a preoccupied manner, for her thoughts had flown in a different direction—to her own one important plan for the coming week.

"How would next Friday suit?" suggested Ruth.

Marjorie shook her head decidedly. "Sorry, but I can't possibly!"

Ruth regarded her curiously. What plans could Marjorie have—so early? No doubt it had something to do with John Hadley.

"If it's John, why, bring him along, and I'll try to get another girl," she ventured.

"No; it has nothing to do with John. I expect to be out of town."

"At Lily's?"

"No; I won't be visiting anybody."

"Oh, well," said Ruth, sulkily, "if you don't want to tell me, you don't have to. I don't care."

"I can't very well tell you, Ruth," replied Marjorie; "and besides, you wouldn't be interested."

"Then when can you come?"

"Tuesday or Wednesday, whichever you like."

The girls finally agreed upon Wednesday, and separated with the promise to visit each other before then. But Ruth resented Marjorie's secrecy and tried to imagine what her important engagement could possibly be.

Christmas, and the next four days passed happily and quickly, and almost before she realized it, Friday had come, bringing to Marjorie her chance for adventure.

Wrapped snugly in her mother's fur coat, and with the big robe tucked in around her, she sat on the front seat of the machine that cold, clear morning of the end of December. She was very happy; she felt, indeed, that she was doing something worth while, and the prospect of a nice long ride with Miss Phillips added not a little to her pleasure.

After they had driven about fifteen miles they met the Scout Captain, and then continued on their way. Ten miles before they reached their destination they stopped at a hotel for dinner.

"Suppose they don't live there any longer," remarked Marjorie. "All our trip for nothing!"

"No, for we could probably get some information from Mrs. Brubaker," replied Miss Phillips. "But I don't think they'd move."

"It isn't likely," assented Marjorie.

It was two o'clock when they arrived at the Brubaker farm. The front door opened, and Mrs. Brubaker appeared.

"Well, of all things!" she exclaimed, recognizing Miss Phillips and Marjorie in the car. "This surely is a surprise!"

When they were all comfortably seated before the open fire, Mr. Wilkinson explained their mission, and the good woman seemed amazed at their news.

"We had no idea Frieda wasn't still at school. Her mother never said a word. Oh, I'm so sorry!"

They talked a little while, and then leaving her father with Mr. Brubaker, Marjorie and her Captain proceeded toward the tenant house where the Hammers lived.

Mrs. Hammer did not recognize them at first. Then Miss Phillips explained.

"We want to know if you have any news of Frieda, Mrs. Hammer," she said, very politely.

"Come in," invited the older woman, holding open the door a little wider.

"We haven't heard a word since she ran away," continued Miss Phillips, as soon as they were inside, "except that a friend of mine saw a girl answering her description in New York."

"That's where she is, I reckon," assented Mrs. Hammer, "but that's all I know. From her onct in a while I get a letter, and can write to her care of—what d'ye call it?—general delivery. But I can't write very good."

"Oh, may we see the letters?" asked Marjorie, eagerly.

"Yes—I don't mind. You people sure treated her white. I don't know what's got into her."

The woman crossed the room, which was untidy and dirty, and pulled out a drawer in the table. There, among heterogeneous trash, Marjorie noticed several letters. Mrs. Hammer tossed them into Miss Phillips's lap.

"You can read them all," she said, "while I go look to the baby."

Miss Phillips noticed Marjorie's excitement, and politely handed her the letters—there were three of them,—which the girl opened with trembling fingers. Apparently, all of them were short.

"This must be the first," she said, and read aloud,

Marjorie put the paper back into the envelope with a sigh.

"That doesn't tell us a whole lot, does it?" she observed. "Except that we know now for sure that the girl that old woman described at the empty house was Frieda."

"But what does she mean about a girl insulting her?" asked Miss Phillips, in a puzzled tone.

Marjorie frowned; she had no desire to tell tales about Ruth. Accordingly, she related the story, but withheld the name of the girl concerned.

"Frieda certainly must be skillful as a boatsman," remarked Miss Phillips, "to be able to come that far."

"Yes," said Marjorie, opening the letter with the second earliest postmark. Then, "Oh, listen to this:

"Trenton!" repeated Miss Phillips. "Marjorie, we might be able to locate your canoe if we search all the boat-houses and the river-front there, and on the opposite side of the Delaware!"

"That's an idea!" cried Marjorie. "I'll ask papa——"

But she was too anxious to read the third and last letter to finish her sentence. Hastily she pulled it from the envelope.

"But she hasn't, any more!" protested Marjorie; "at least, if Miss Smith is right!"

At that moment Mrs. Hammer returned with the baby, and Marjorie asked her all sorts of questions to which she could not reply, but only shake her head hopelessly.

"But aren't you the least bit worried?" asked Marjorie, picturing how her own mother would feel under similar circumstances. For Mrs. Hammer was certainly amazingly calm.

"Ach! she's old enough to take care of herself!" cried the woman impatiently. "New York's a fine place—I'm glad she is there!"

Marjorie again thought of the great city as she had seen it when she visited Lily at Thanksgiving, and she shuddered at the confusion and the danger of it all. And to a country girl like Frieda, it must be even more terrifying. But she said nothing further; Mrs. Hammer had no conception of it, and probably never would have. She was relieved to see Miss Phillips make a motion to go.

All during the ride home, she was unusually quiet, but it was not from despair. The visit, she felt, had not been in vain; she had formulated a plan which she meant to put into effect as soon as she reached home. She would write to Frieda and tell her how much she wanted her to come back. She would assure the girl that she did not mind about the canoe—she would even make her a present of it. And she would be glad to send Frieda the money for a return ticket if she would only promise to come back!