Marjorie returned to college bubbling over with the plans for the new enterprise. Fortunately, she found Lily in her room, and into her interested ears she poured the details.

“John is going to let me know as soon as he hears anything definite,” she concluded, as she finished her description of the attractive place they hoped to rent. “In the meantime I want to study up all I can about tea-room management. I wonder whether there are any books on the subject.”

“I guess so,” said Lily; “but not in the college library. Suppose I write to mother, and ask her to look in some of the New York book-stores?”

“Wonderful!” cried Marjorie, delighted to have her chum enter so heartily into her plans. “Just the thing! Oh, Lil, what would I ever do without you?”

“I’m just as thrilled over the prospect of it as you are,” replied her room-mate. “Only I’m afraid my motives aren’t so altruistic. It’s more because I’m glad of a chance to spend the summer with the old bunch than because I’m anxious to help the woman, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, we’ll have lots of summers together,” said Marjorie. “But this really is going to be an unusual experience.”

“I wish I believed the first thing you said,” returned Lily. “I feel it in my bones that now that Doris has started it, we’ll probably lose one girl every year, at least. And you can’t tell me it’s ever the same after they’re married!”

“Not exactly. But we still have Doris.”

“Never to go away with us again in the summer time, or to do anything much where men aren’t included. We’ve lost her—and when we lose you, I don’t know what I’ll do!”

“Well, you needn’t worry about that, yet,” laughed Marjorie. “I intend to stay single long enough to finish college, anyway.”

“But you never can tell what a summer will do,” sighed Lily. “Especially when you live in the same city with John Hadley—and see him every day!”

“Which I don’t intend to do. We’re going to be too busy, Lil, to have callers all the time. I want to make five hundred dollars this summer, besides paying back the money we borrow from your father.”

“I hope we do. Now, let’s forget the tea-room for a while, and talk about the wedding. Did you decide upon your dresses?”

“Yes; Mae and I are going to wear pink flowered georgettes, with very pale green hats of plain georgette. And I think Marie Louise is wearing all pale green.”

“And Doris—does she want a train?”

“I suppose so; but I know she can’t have one. I really didn’t hear the particulars about her dress. But what difference does it make—Doris Sands would look lovely in anything!”

“She certainly would,” agreed Lily.

The girls turned to their studies, but both found it hard to concentrate that evening. College, which up to this time had seemed wonderful to Marjorie, appeared dull and uninteresting in comparison with the two great events that loomed before her in the near future. She wished she could skip all the intervening days between then and the first of June, and be about to start on her new venture.

John Hadley’s promised letter, however, did not come so soon as she had expected, and she began to grow impatient of the delay. Each afternoon, after the last mail was in, an overwhelming feeling of despondency would take possession of her at the thought of waiting at least sixteen hours for news.

On the Saturday afternoon following her visit, when she came out of the post-office again empty handed, she began to wonder seriously how she would ever get through Sunday. She walked slowly up to her room and found Lily chatting with Agnes Taylor, another member of the freshman class.

“Marj, what is the matter?” demanded Lily, immediately. “You look as if you had lost your last friend!”

“Not quite so bad as that,” replied her room-mate, making a feeble attempt to smile. “Only I haven’t heard about our tea-house yet, and now there won’t be a mail until Monday morning.”

“What tea-house?” asked Agnes, with interest.

Marjorie explained briefly the scouts’ project for the summer, and concluded by saying that they had a place in mind which a friend of hers was trying to secure for them.

“And I’m so afraid we’re not going to get it—” she was saying, when a sharp knock at the door interrupted her. Lily opened it to find one of the maids holding out a telegram.

“For Miss Marjorie Wilkinson,” she announced.

“Oh!” gasped Marjorie, dashing forward eagerly. “I hope it isn’t bad news.”

Trembling, she tore open the yellow envelope and read the message feverishly. Then a broad smile of content spread over her face.

“Listen, girls!” she cried, exultantly:

“Isn’t that marvellous?”

Marjorie began to execute a happy little dance about the room, every now and then picking up the telegram to re-read the message, and to make sure that it was really true. It was some minutes before the other girls could bring her down to earth and make her talk sensibly. Finally Agnes, who was a Philadelphia girl, asked her the exact location of the house in question, and succeeded in getting a rational reply.

“I believe I know the very house you mean,” she said, after Marjorie had described it and told of its location. “And to whom does it belong?”

“To a young man named Edward Scott—an Oxford student,” replied Marjorie.

“O—oh!” remarked Agnes, very knowingly.

“What’s the matter, Agnes?” demanded Marjorie. “Do you know anything about the place? We haven’t been inside—is it all right?”

“It’s perfectly charming, as far as I know.”

“Then why the mysterious oh?”

Agnes smiled slightly; it was fun to play upon the girls’ curiosity.

“Didn’t four or five people in that family die, one right after the other?” she asked.

“Not four or five—three!” corrected Marjorie. “Why?”

“And they all died in that house?”

“Yes, I guess they did,” admitted Marjorie.

“Oh!” exclaimed Lily, suddenly jumping at the inference. “There’s something peculiar about the house? It’s—haunted?”

“Well, that’s what they say, anyhow. For a while after the owner went abroad, the agent tried to rent the place, I believe, but the story got around—exaggerated, of course—and the prospective tenants were scared off. And then they gave up trying to rent it. You better be careful about sleeping there at night—I understand all the deaths took place in the small hours of the morning.”

“Marj,” said Lily, affected in spite of herself by the story, “don’t you think maybe it would be better to hunt another place?”

“No, certainly not!” laughed Marjorie, greatly amused at the whole idea. “But there is no danger of our sleeping there, for we have a lovely house to live in during the summer.”

If Agnes’s story made any impression upon either of the girls at the time, it was entirely forgotten when the wedding drew near. Indeed, even the tea-room and Daisy’s baby were effaced from Marjorie’s mind by the overpowering importance of this great event.

During the last two weeks of May a number of social events had been planned in Doris’s honor, but Marjorie had been able to attend only a few—those which were scheduled for week-ends; for college activities and studies would not allow her much free time. The one function, however, to which she had been looking forward with as keen anticipation as the wedding itself—the dinner to the bridal party—had been arranged for a time that would be convenient for her.

It was a small affair at Doris’s home, just outside of New York City. Besides Mr. and Mrs. Sands, there were the four girls—Doris, Marie Louise Harris, Mae Van Horn, and Marjorie; the best man—Jack Wilkinson—,the ushers—John Hadley and William Warner; and Roger himself. The party itself was not elaborate; flowers in the center of the table and place-cards at the places were the only decorations. The conversation was gay and light, and yet underneath it all could be perceived the solemnity of the approaching occasion. The most serious step that two young people can take was about to be celebrated.

But though Doris was an only child, and would be greatly missed by her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Sands had evidently decided to allow no parting sadness to spoil the happiness of these days; and, following their example, everyone adopted an exuberant mood. Doris and Roger were happiest of all.

Marjorie sat next to John Hadley, and he seized the first opportunity to speak of the tea-room.

“Mother has no end of plans,” he said; “and she says there’s an awful lot to get ready. So could you girls manage to come to Philadelphia as soon as college closes, and all pitch in and help?”

“I’d love to!” cried Marjorie, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “And I guess most of the other girls could, too. I don’t think anybody has anything much planned for the first part of June.”

“And bring the capital along, mother said; you ought to keep it in a Philadelphia bank, you know.”

“Naturally. John, do you suppose five hundred dollars will be enough?”

“I don’t think you ought to go in any deeper than that—just for a summer,” replied the young man, gravely. “It would be too much of risk.”

“But can we do it for that?”

“Mother seems to think you can. You can go over it thoroughly with her. And that reminds me, is the baby’s mother still alive?”

“Yes, she had the operation and is still living. And Daisy got a good woman to take care of Betty while she is at school.”

The conversation grew general again, and Marjorie forgot the tea-room temporarily in the gaiety that followed. The rest of the evening was given to dancing; but when the girls separated they reminded each other that their next meeting would be of a very different nature—the solemnization of the marriage ceremony in Doris’s church.

As this was the first wedding among any of her own friends, it was Marjorie’s first opportunity to be a bridesmaid. She kept telling herself that she was not an important person, that no one in the congregation would have eyes for anyone but the bride; yet, as she preceded Marie Louise and Doris down the aisle, she was trembling so that she could hardly walk. She wondered how it would feel to be the bride, to exchange those solemn promises with a man who had once been only a casual acquaintance. She glanced surreptitiously at Doris out of the corner of her eye, but the girl seemed calm and absolutely at her ease; evidently her great happiness had wiped away all her former nervousness.

Marjorie breathed a sigh of relief when the ceremony was finally over, when they had all reached the seclusion of the vestry-room once more, and everybody was kissing and congratulating Doris at once. She was glad too to find the ensuing reception informal; indeed it seemed more like a delightful party at which all her old friends were present than the stately occasion she had been dreading. Doris, too, laughed and talked a great deal, and even made a pretense at eating.

“The really exciting thing,” she said to Marjorie, in an interval after supper, before the dancing began, “is to see who catches my bouquet. I hope it is one of our old bunch.”

“Now, Doris,” remonstrated Marjorie; “we don’t want too many of our girls to get married.”

“Oh, I do!” laughed Doris. “Now, I’m going to stand over the railing and throw it. Please ask Jack to tell everybody to be ready.”

A mad scramble among the girls followed Jack Wilkinson’s announcement, as, almost like children, they crowded about the hall. Doris stood on the stairs, and, closing her eyes, tossed the beautiful bouquet out over the banister. The girls all raised their arms expectantly, but it was Mae Van Horn who grasped it in her outstretched hands. A great shout arose from all the spectators.

“So you’re next!” cried Lily, rapturously. “I’m so glad!” Then, squeezing Marjorie’s arm, she whispered, delightedly, “I so didn’t want it to be you! And as you walked down the aisle on John Hadley’s arm, everybody was making guesses!”

“Oh, Lil!” laughed her chum. “You needn’t worry. The flowers are lovely—but I don’t want them that badly!”