Morning exercises at Miss Allen’s always began with the singing of a hymn, followed by reading from the Bible by one of the teachers. No matter what events were to come after, this custom was never altered.

Once in two months the students received their reports with due formality when everyone was in the assembly room. Miss Allen’s secretary carried the pile of white envelopes on to the platform; and, after the religious exercises were concluded, the Principal read the names of the girls in the order of their averages, and they came forward to receive the reports.

Up to this time, Marjorie had never been particularly interested in the ceremony. She always wanted to pass, but she rather regarded those girls whose marks ranged from eighty to ninety per cent as a little “queer”; they must be abnormal if they were more interested in mathematics and Latin than in hockey and cocoa-parties. But this Monday morning after the Latin test, she felt that she had never cared about anything so much before as she cared for her term average. She was so nervous that she could have cried out while the girls droned through four stanzas of the hymn the music teacher had selected. She glanced apprehensively at the secretary, but failed to see the usual pile of white envelopes on the chair beside her; then resolutely putting her doubts aside, she attempted to join in the singing.

Finally it was over; Miss Allen rose and walked to the front of the platform. But, contrary to her usual custom, the secretary kept her seat. Something was wrong; Marjorie sensed it even before Miss Allen began to explain.

“Girls,” she said slowly, fingering her watch-chain, “I am very sorry to say that you will not receive your marks until to-morrow. We received Miss White’s list of Latin test averages only to-day; so, even though Miss Smith will work on them all day in the office, we can’t have them ready before late this afternoon. But as soon as she has them made up, she will give the list of girls eligible for the Scout troop to Miss Phillips, and perhaps we can announce the new candidates at dinner to-night. But you may come to assembly to-morrow prepared to receive your reports.” When Miss Allen stopped speaking, Marjorie discovered that she was literally shaking all over. “Why, I never cared half so much about making the sorority,” she said to herself. “I wonder if Ruth felt that way over it—and Lily, too! Poor girls! I wish I had been more sympathetic. But I didn’t understand.”

No day ever seemed so long to Marjorie; but it went all too quickly for Ruth, who was glad to have the moment postponed when Marjorie learned of her disappointment. Once or twice she was inclined to regret her action, and her conscience told her that she had broken the Scout’s first law—that “her honor is to be trusted;” but she always succeeded in justifying herself by thinking: “Marjorie was glad I didn’t make the sorority, and probably would have done the same thing to me if it had been necessary!” She remembered the house-party, and the dance, and Marjorie’s indifference during the past months; and she gritted her teeth, and said she was glad for what she had done.

She tried to avoid Marjorie, but as so often happens, she met both Lily and Marjorie in the pool. Miss Phillips was sitting on the bench, superintending the hour.

“In about a month,” said Miss Phillips to the girls at the deep end, “after spring vacation, basket-ball season starts. And then we play Miss Martin’s school; and if you girls don’t beat them this time—I believe I’ll resign!”

Ruth was sitting on the edge of the diving-board, dangling her feet; and Lily and Marjorie were making attempts to tread water, but every few minutes they reached for the side-rail. All the while they were listening to Miss Phillips.

Marjorie looked frightened. “Oh, don’t do that, Miss Phillips—why, we’d do anything to prevent that! I do believe the whole school’d turn out every day to practice, if they thought that would prevent you from leaving!”

“Thanks for the compliment,” said Miss Phillips. “But I really do think the girls have a different spirit now from last fall—not about me, but athletics and lessons; and it’s all because we have substituted a splendid, democratic, American organization for that sickly, snobbish, thing that used to exist—I mean F??—to take the girls’ hearts, and their time and their money, and give them nothing in return!”

“In other words,” said Ruth, proudly, “thanks to me!”

“Yes, thanks to you, Ruth, and to Miss Allen, and to Mrs. Juliette Lowe—the founder of the Girl Scouts!”

Noticing that Marjorie had seemed somewhat embarrassed at her arraignment of the sorority, and was swimming off in the opposite direction, Miss Phillips added hastily:

“And we’re all hoping, Marjorie dear, that by this time to-morrow night you’ll be among the candidates. I’m only waiting for the list now.”

Marjorie flushed with pleasure. It was something to be called “dear” by Miss Phillips even if she never made the troop.

“Marjorie’s going to make it,” said Lily. “Why, with the way she’s studied, she couldn’t help it.”

Before the teacher could say anything further, a messenger from the office entered and handed her an envelope. Glancing hastily at its contents, she rose, and issued the command: “All out of the pool!” and stood until the girls had filed out; then she extinguished the light, and went into her office.

“And in five minutes she will know my fate,” whispered Marjorie to Lily, as the girls opened their lockers.

Everybody was in high spirits at dinner that evening; the girls were happy with expectation. And this feeling was greatly increased when Miss White entered in the middle of the meal with her coat and hat on, and showed plainly by her happy smile that everything was right at home.

It was indeed a fitting time for Miss Allen to inform the lucky candidates of their election to the Girl Scout troop.

“Before I announce the names of the new candidates,” she said, “let me tell you that Miss Martin’s school is watching our Girl Scout troop carefully, and from our success will decide whether or not to start one of their own next year! It is a big responsibility, girls! I would like every student in my school to be a scout, if she would try to live up to the pledge and laws; but at the same time, I want to keep the standard very high. So we are going slowly.

“I am glad to announce to-night that eight girls—another whole patrol—have qualified; and as I read the names I would like the girls to stand.

“Senior—Lucy Graham.

“Juniors—Elsie Lorimer, Emily Rankin, Mary Ridgeway.

“Sophomores—Vivien VanSciver, Ada Mearns.

“Freshmen—Anna Cane, Doris Sands.”

Everybody clapped except Marjorie. She sat perfectly still. The room seemed to go around and around; and she thought she was going to faint.

The girls all got up and pressed over to their friends to congratulate them. Somehow Marjorie realized that she should not sit any longer, and she stood up. But in a second Lily was by her side, her arm linked in hers.

“Come on out,” she said. “Don’t worry, Marj—surely there has been a mistake! Wait till you get your report.”

She literally led Marjorie to their room. When they reached it, and Lily had closed the door, the unhappy girl threw herself on her cot, weeping. Lily was unable to console her.

“It’s no use,” sobbed Marjorie. “I have failed in my Latin. I guess I tried too hard; I must have been nervous, and put down the wrong things.” She hid her face in the pillow.

In a few minutes, a knock sounded at the door, and Lily opened it, preparing to say that Marjorie had a headache, and to ask the guest to call again. But it was Miss Phillips.

“Come in,” said Lily quietly. Approaching her room-mate’s cot, she leaned over and said, “It’s Miss Phillips, Marjorie, to see you. Please excuse me,” she added discreetly, “I must go to the library.”

The next half-hour was one of those short but important times that always stood out in Marjorie’s memory. Miss Phillips sat down beside her, and taking her hand, told her it was not a mistake—that her Latin mark was so low that she had all but failed. And then she related an instance in her own life, when she had wanted so much to succeed in an undertaking—it was the passing of a physical training exam;—she had failed, and her money had given out; she had been forced to give up her plans and go to work in an office.

“But it was my Sunday-School teacher,” she said, “who made me hold on to my ideal, and succeed at last; and I guess I was better equipped in the end.”

Marjorie seemed calmer now, so Miss Phillips continued in her soft voice:

“I shall never forget that poem of Edwin Markam’s—do you know his work, Marjorie?—that my teacher read to me at the time:

“And I believe sometimes that defeat is just the thing we need.”

Miss Phillips talked a long time with Marjorie, and held before her a new race to pursue; so that when Lily came back from the library and the teacher rose to go, Marjorie seemed quite happy, and promised to try again.

The next day she received her report with sixty-six in Latin; but she never saw her paper, for Miss White had burned it with the others after she had copied the marks and sent them to Miss Allen.