Although Marjorie and Ruth did not visit each other during the Thanksgiving holidays, they met at the station on the day of their return to school, and rode back together. But they seemed to have less to talk about than when they first made the trip. Ruth was still jealous of Marjorie because she had made the sorority, and she made no attempt to conceal the fact from the other girl. The consciousness of her feelings made Marjorie uncomfortable. They tried to keep up the conversation with commonplace remarks; but both girls felt relieved when the journey was over.

Lily was waiting on the station platform as the train pulled into the school town. At this time, she presented a very different appearance from that of the day when she first arrived at school. Instead of an elaborately frizzed coiffure, her hair was parted simply on the side, and hung in a long plait down her back. And her clothes were more appropriate, too; she was dressed neatly in a dark blue Peter Thomson, over which she wore a big blue sweater; and on her head was a knitted cap to match. In this costume, Lily Andrews was far from unattractive.

Marjorie and Lily kissed each other affectionately.

“I’m awfully glad you’re back, Marj!” Lily said.

“Yes, I’m glad to be back, too. I surely missed all the girls.”

“It was better for you than for me,” said Lily, “for you had Ruth, and nobody from Miss Allen’s lives near me.”

“I don’t count!” exclaimed Ruth, sarcastically.

Lily looked puzzled, and Marjorie hastily changed the subject.

“I’m glad now that I don’t room with Ruth!” thought Marjorie, as the girls separated to go to their rooms.

The dining-room that night rang with laughter and gay chatter. The girls had all had a good time; but they were glad to be back among their school friends again. There was so much to tell about the vacation that everybody lingered longer at the table than was the usual custom.

Marjorie was the first at her table to ask to be excused. She was anxious to see Miss Phillips; she had to tell her that it would be impossible for her to go out for swimming. She knew the teacher would be disappointed; but she had made up her mind.

She met Miss Phillips in the hall, and after greeting her somewhat coolly, asked her to come into the parlor with her.

“I am afraid I can’t go out for the swimming team, Miss Phillips,” she said abruptly, after they had seated themselves side by side on the sofa. “I’m down in Latin, and if I don’t study hard, I won’t pass.”

“I’m awfully sorry. Can’t you possibly manage it? We need girls so much—and you’re a good swimmer already. I wouldn’t want you to neglect your lessons; but Latin won’t take all your time, will it?”

“No, but you know the sorority takes an awful lot of it. I’ve just got to give up something—so I guess it will have to be athletics.”

“Very well,” replied Miss Phillips, rising; “you know best.”

But as the days passed Marjorie often wondered whether she really did know best. She realized, in a vague sort of way, that she was not so happy as she had been when she first came to Miss Allen’s; and she was not so healthy either. Her cheeks had lost their rosy color, and she was visibly thinner. She seldom saw Miss Phillips now—and she missed her.

When it came time to pick the class swimming teams, it was a difficult matter to find enough freshmen to make the required number. In fact, most of the girls chosen were beginners. Lily Andrews, who had gone religiously to practice every day, made it; and, strange to say, Ruth Henry developed a new interest in athletics, and proved to be so clever in the water that she was immediately chosen captain. But the team could not in any way compete with those of the upper classes; in the inter-class tournament, it was the first to be defeated.

Marjorie tried not to take the defeat to heart; but she had to tell herself over and over that it was not her fault, that it would hardly have done better if she had taken part. She tried to dismiss athletics and Miss Phillips from her mind, and turn her attention to other interests.

She planned a sorority house-party for the Christmas holidays, and wrote home for her mother’s consent. When she received her reply, approving the idea, she ran over to Doris’s room to announce the good news.

Doris was enthusiastic over the plan. Marjorie went into detail in her explanation.

“You are invited for the Friday before we come back to school,” she said, “and stay till Sunday night, when we’ll all come back together. I’m just asking the freshmen and sophomore members—there wouldn’t be room for everybody.”

“I love house-parties!” exclaimed Doris, “and this will be wonderful!”

“I hope you will have a good time. We’re going to have an informal little dance on Saturday night; my brother Jack—you know he goes to Episcopal Academy—will invite the boys.”

Together they ran over to Ethel Todd’s room, and found her alone. Marjorie was talking excitedly about the party when Ruth suddenly opened the door, and came in. Stopping in the middle of a sentence, she rose, and added, “We must go, Ethel. I just wanted to make sure you’d come.”

“You bet I’ll come, Marj,” answered Ethel; “the four o’clock train?”

“Yes, Jack—my brother—will meet it with the machine.”

Marjorie and Doris went out, and Ethel turned to Ruth with a word of explanation. “Marjorie is inviting the freshmen and sophomore members of our sorority to her home for the last week end before we come back. Won’t that be delightful?”

“Charming,” assented Ruth, unenthusiastically. Ethel turned away. Why did Ruth always show so plainly that she was jealous?

When the time came for the girls to leave for the Christmas holidays, Marjorie succeeded in being excused in time to make an early train; she wanted to avoid the necessity of the long ride with Ruth; it would be too embarrassing to talk about the house-party, and yet she knew Ruth would bring the subject up if she had the opportunity.

For the same reason she managed to keep away from Ruth during the holidays. Once or twice the girls met at entertainments or social gatherings, but they never were alone together.

The day for the arrival of Marjorie’s guests came, and her brother Jack, and his chum, Roger Harris, each borrowed his father’s machine, and drove down to meet the four o’clock train. Marjorie went with Jack.

“Isn’t Ruth coming over to meet the girls?” he asked as they got into the car.

“No,” answered Marjorie, without looking up.

“Why not? I always thought she was your best friend.”

“She’s one of my best friends; but you see she doesn’t belong to our sorority, so she’s not invited.”

“But there’s nothing secret about this house-party, is there?” “No, but—oh, you wouldn’t understand, Jack—it simply wouldn’t do!”

“Well, she’s coming to the dance, isn’t she?”

Marjorie frowned. “No!” she said emphatically, “she isn’t coming any of the time.”

Jack looked disappointed, but said nothing more. Ruth had always been a favorite of his, and he could not quite imagine a party without her.

In a minute or two, both machines pulled up to the station, and the young people got out, just as the whistle of the locomotive was heard around the curve beyond.

Almost before the train stopped, Mae and Doris had reached the platform, and Ethel, Marian, and Frances were close behind them. Marjorie had not expected Anna, who had gone far away for her vacation; but she was surprised to miss Lulu Davids.

After the girls had kissed each other, and the boys had been introduced, Marian hastened to explain the other girl’s absence.

“Lulu took a bad cold yesterday,” she said, “and her mother wouldn’t let her come. I guess you’ll get a letter from her to-morrow.”

Marjorie expressed her disappointment, and the girls began to get into the machines. Jack and Roger both clamored for Doris’s suitcase; then, remembering their manners, they went to the assistance of the other girls.

While the girls were unpacking their suitcases, Marjorie outlined the program.

“After you rest, and dress, we’re going to have dinner quietly at home—just mother and dad, and Jack and Roger besides us; then the boys are going to take us to the early show at the movies. So we’ll get back by nine-thirty, and get into our nighties, and have a little something to eat in our rooms, and settle down early. To-morrow mother’s going to let us sleep as long as we want, and then Jack and Roger will drive us over to the cutest little tea-room out in the country for lunch. We’ll come back early to rest and dress for the dance.”

“I’m so excited about the dance!” said Mae, her eyes sparkling.

“The only thing about the dance is, we expected Lulu, and Jack has invited five other boys besides himself and Roger.”

“That’s much nicer than having too many girls,” said Mae.

“But it’s not so nice as an even number.”

“Oh, well, we’ll do our best to be entertaining,” said Doris.

“I guess you can easily manage two, Doris,” teased Marjorie, taking great delight in watching the pretty girl blush.

Mrs. Wilkinson soon made the girls feel at home, and the party progressed splendidly. Jack and Roger, with their constant teasing, never allowed things to get slow. They collected half a dozen clocks and set the alarms to ring every half hour, and hid them in the girls’ rooms before they arrived; so that early Saturday morning the sleepy girls awakened at regular intervals, much to their annoyance. By half past seven, they were thoroughly awake, and decided to get up.

When they were all seated at the breakfast table, Mrs. Wilkinson asked casually:

“Ruth will be over for the dance to-night, I suppose?”

Marjorie flushed, and without raising her eyes from her plate, she replied, “No, she isn’t coming.”

“Why not?” asked her mother in surprise.

“I didn’t invite her.”

But Mrs. Wilkinson failed to notice the embarrassment of her daughter and the other girls, and persisted with her questions.

“Couldn’t Jack get enough boys together?”

“Yes—it wasn’t that.”

At this point Jack interrupted. “I’ve even got an extra one; I invited one for the girl who didn’t come.”

“Then call Ruth on the telephone,” suggested Mrs. Wilkinson.

Marjorie felt herself growing angry. “But, Mother,” she explained, “she isn’t in our sorority.”

“Nonsense! What difference does that make?”

But Marjorie did not answer, and her father, seeing her predicament, came to the rescue, and changed the subject.

After the girls had eaten as many hot-cakes, and as much “country sausage” as they possibly could, they went into the sitting-room to read magazines and chat while Roger and Jack went out to the garage to look over their cars.

When they returned, the girls were waiting for them.

“Couldn’t we all go in one car?” asked Frances. “It seems a shame to be separated! And there are only eight of us!”

But Roger expressed instant disapproval. He was counting on having Doris beside him on the front seat, and he did not care to sacrifice his plan.

“Well, maybe it will be better to take both cars,” remarked Marjorie. “We’re not big, but our coats are!” “Miss Sands, will you ride with me?” asked Roger boldly.

“Thank you,” said Doris, and she stepped into his car.

The young couple were surprised to see all the others climb into Jack’s machine, laughing in high good humor at the joke they had played in leaving them alone together—a joke, however, which suited Roger immensely, and which was not unpleasing to Doris.

The machines started together; Jack, who was more familiar with the roads, took the lead. They drove along the principal business streets of the town, and stopped at one or two of the principal shops. Finally, they left the houses and stores behind, and, following an unfrequented road, made for the open country. They rode for over an hour, laughing and chatting gayly. Jack was in his element.

“I really think your brother likes being the only boy among us all,” teased Ethel.

“How about Roger?” asked Jack.

“Oh, he doesn’t count—he’s in the other machine, and besides, he’s completely absorbed with Doris.”

“Well, I won’t have the distinction long,” he remarked. “The boys will be here to-night.” “Do tell us about them,” pleaded Mae. “What are their names, and what are they like?”

“The finest fellow, to my way of thinking, is John Hadley. He’s a senior—the oldest of the bunch; he’s Captain of the football team, and Senior Patrol leader of the Boy Scouts—which is one of the highest honors a boy can get at Episcopal.”

“Are you a Boy Scout, Jack?” asked Ethel.

“No, not yet; but I’m studying for it, and hope to make it before the year’s out.” Returning to the subject of interest, he continued, “Two other Boy Scouts—both juniors—are coming. Russell Henderson and David Conner—I think you’ll like them, too. And the other two boys—Ross Morgan and Art Whiteside, are members of my class. Ross is funny; can keep you laughing forever. Perhaps he isn’t much for looks, but everybody likes him.”

“Aren’t there any freshmen coming?” asked Mae, a trifle disappointed.

“No, I didn’t ask any; they’re so green, you know.”

The girls laughed at the typical sophomore point of view.

“Are the boys pretty good dancers?” asked Marjorie.

“Yes, I think so—all but Ross. He’d probably rather run the victrola, and sit out dances. It would be all right if we only had enough girls!”

“Oh, here’s the tea-room!” cried Marjorie, glad of the opportunity to change the subject. “I hope Roger and Doris aren’t lost.”

The other machine drove up in a minute, and the young people jumped out. Marjorie led the way.

“Are you ready for us, Mrs. King?” she asked, as a good-natured looking landlady smilingly approached the girls.

“Yes, indeed—there’s your table by the window, Miss Marjorie.”

The little tea-room, with its prettily curtained windows, its fireplace, and its shining white paint, was exceedingly attractive. The table to which Mrs. King had directed the girls was already set with dainty china, and a big bowl of pink roses served as a center-piece.

Mrs. Wilkinson had known Mrs. King for many years; and believing that the young people would enjoy a luncheon by themselves, she had telephoned to her to ask her to act as chaperone.

The luncheon, from the appetizing chicken soup to the French pastry dessert, was delicious and dainty; the service was good; and the party was in high spirits. After it was over, Mrs. King invited the young people to sing some school songs around the open fireplace. It was almost three o’clock when Marjorie rose to go.

“If this were the end of it all,” said Ethel, as she climbed into the machine, “I would vote it the best time I ever had in my life.”

“And the best is yet to come,” said Frances, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.