When Ruth reached her own room, she found Ethel already there untying her pack and putting away her scout equipment. Ruth explained that she had been with the Wilkinsons—that they had brought her and Marjorie both back to the school.

“Now tell me all about the accident,” said Ethel. “Of course we got the story from Jack, but he wasn’t there the whole time so he couldn’t tell us everything.”

Ruth went into detail about the adventure, but she omitted to describe her own feelings when she thought she was drowning. That was too personal, and too humiliating; it was bad enough to have to tell Marjorie, but she could not bear the thought of a public acknowledgment.

And then, for the first time, she realized something of what the consequences of her confession would be. It would be only fair to allow Marjorie to tell Miss White, Miss Allen, and Miss Phillips, so that she might be given another opportunity to join the troop. This would necessitate an explanation to the other scouts, and they, in turn, would undoubtedly tell all the girls in the school. A confession would doom her to the lasting contempt of her companions and her teachers; she would probably be put out of the troop and be shunned by her former friends.

Even now it was not too late to change her mind; no one was suspicious. It was true that she had hinted of a confession to Marjorie; but she could tell her about the crochet, and she would probably laugh and forgive her.

While these thoughts were going through her mind, Ethel was talking about the ghost incident, and laughing at Jack’s cleverness. “It was funny,” she said, “to think that he put one over on you, Ruth; for you’re not easily scared. But you were scared when you thought you were drowning?”

“Was I!” exclaimed Ruth. “Dying is a good deal worse than I ever thought it would be!”

“Maybe you had a guilty conscience,” suggested Ethel.

“I guess most people have,” answered Ruth, “unless they’re nuns or ministers, or something like that.”

“Maybe they have, too,” said Ethel, as she left the room. The conversation brought Ruth back to her dilemma. It recalled to her again, vividly, that dreadful sensation of terror that had overwhelmed her in the water. Ethel had said she was never afraid of anything! She smiled bitterly. Probably no girl in the school had ever been so frightened, so terrified to the very depths of her soul as she had been. But she would not risk a second experience. She dreaded the consequences of her confession; but she dreaded to a much greater degree, the consequences of the omission of that confession. She had made up her mind—she would not change it; she would tell Marjorie that night!

As they were dressing for dinner, she announced to Ethel her intention of spending the night with Marjorie. “I’ll get Miss Allen’s permission,” she added.

Ethel looked at Ruth suspiciously. “There must be some reason,” she thought, “for this sudden desire for Marjorie’s company.” But her suppositions were far from the truth: she attributed the attraction to the other girl’s brother.

After supper Ruth gathered her books and her toilet articles and started for Marjorie’s room. She found two or three other girls visiting her friend, and for some time had no chance to talk with her alone. Finally they all left. Ruth opened her book; but she could not study.

“You know I said I had something to tell you, Marj,” she said slowly, with her eyes fastened to the pattern of the rug. “It’s a confession!”

Marjorie drew down the corners of her mouth, in her effort to keep from smiling. The incident of the crochet had seemed big at the time, but now it appeared as only a trifle. “Maybe I know already,” she suggested.

“About your filet, you mean?”

“Yes—Miss Phillips gave it away at that surprise party.”

“I thought so; she never guessed, of course. But I knew you’d put two and two together, Marj.”

“Well, I don’t mind, Ruth. I was mad at the time, but after all it didn’t hurt me. And you’d have been a second-class scout soon anyhow.”

“Perhaps,” said Ruth. “You’ve been too good to me, Marj. But wait till you hear the rest!”

“The rest?”

“Yes; that isn’t nearly all. I’m a real criminal. Oh, Marj, if you hadn’t saved me to-day, and I’d died, what would have become of me?”

Ruth suddenly burst into tears. She had been under too great a strain in the last twenty-four hours, and she lost control of herself completely. After all, she was only fifteen—and the rÔle of criminal was new to her. Aside from the little white lies that most of us tell sometimes, she had up to this time been upright in character.

Marjorie jumped up and put her arms around her. She forgot about the Ruth she had known during the past year; she saw only her old playmate, as she used to cry when she was hurt.

“What is it, Ruth?” she asked with concern. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

But Ruth pushed her aside, and wiped her eyes. “Sit down, Marj,” she said, as calmly as she could, “I don’t deserve your sympathy. Listen!”

Marjorie sat opposite her, and Ruth told her story. She told it exactly as it had happened, omitting none of the details, and making no effort to excuse her motive. She called herself names—she was a traitor, a thief, and a liar. She deserved no mercy; she wanted none. Marjorie could do whatever she wanted with her; but now she could die with a clear conscience.

Marjorie listened in amazement. The story seemed too dreadful to be true; and yet, the facts linked together and explained all her former doubts. Suddenly the realization of what she had missed came over her—the party at the cabin, the overnight hike, the play rehearsals, and all the good times; the fellowship with Miss Phillips, and Doris, and the rest of her friends, and the opportunity to be with John Hadley—four months of happiness that she had lost. She had been cheated out of her rights; she felt bitter; she could not forgive Ruth. She turned to her sharply.

But before she could utter a word, a knock sounded at the door. It was Miss Phillips.

“Come in,” said Marjorie, as naturally as she could. Ruth stood up as the teacher entered, but she could not bear to salute.

“I just wanted to see whether Lily is back yet,” said Miss Phillips.

“I am sorry; but she isn’t, Miss Phillips. But won’t you sit down?”

“Only for a minute. I wanted to tell Lily—and I’ll take this chance to tell you, Ruth—that the scouts decided to-day to give up next Saturday to doing a good turn for somebody else. So I have Miss Allen’s permission to invite the twenty-four little orphans from the Mynfield Home for an outing.”

“How lovely,” said Marjorie, absently.

“Poor children; they don’t have much pleasure in their lives,” continued Miss Phillips, not noticing the girls’ preoccupation. “So when Frances suggested giving them a party next Saturday, I jumped at the idea. It’s our last Saturday together—except for the one of the play—but the girls want to use it for their troop good turn.”

Miss Phillips stayed for a few minutes and told the girls more about the little orphans. And when she rose to go, they had almost forgotten, for the time, their own tragedy.

Neither girl said anything for several minutes after Miss Phillips had gone. Marjorie sat down at her desk and started to write; Ruth turned the pages of her book, but she did not look at the contents.

“What are you going to do about it, Marj?” she asked.

“Nothing,” replied Marjorie, indifferently.

Ruth’s hopes rose, but she shook her head. “I can’t allow that,” she said. “You ought to be a Girl Scout.”

“But most of the good times are over now.”

“Not this summer’s camping trip. And if we tell Miss Phillips the reason, she’ll probably let you take the second-class test with the others next Friday night.”

Marjorie’s face brightened. It was the dream of her heart to become a Girl Scout! But then she thought of the disgrace this would necessitate bringing upon Ruth. Miss White and Miss Phillips would both have to know the story—and perhaps even Miss Allen and some of the scouts. Ruth had not treated her as a scout should treat anyone, let alone a former friend; but that would not excuse Marjorie, if she disregarded the other girl’s feelings. She thought of the scout slogan that Miss Phillips had just been speaking about—“Do a good turn daily.” “And if I start my career as a Girl Scout by disregarding that law, it would be to begin all wrong. Better stay out of the troop forever,” she reflected.

“I’m not going to do a thing, Ruth,” she said aloud. “It would be too hard on you!”

Ruth jumped up with characteristic impulsiveness. “I’m going straight to Miss White this very minute,” she said, “and lay the whole thing before her. Then I’ll do whatever she advises.”

Before she could protest, Ruth was gone. Marjorie turned to her writing, but she could think of nothing but the present complication. She felt sorry for Ruth, but she could not help hoping that Miss White would insist upon a confession.

She pictured herself in the Girl Scout uniform, marching along with the other girls, helping them with the play, and accompanying them on their camping trip; she thought of the pleasure of telling her father and mother and Jack,—yes, and John Hadley—of her final triumph. Miss Phillips, too, would be genuinely glad of her good fortune.

She waited impatiently for Ruth to return. She got up and straightened the room, took out some crocheting, put it down, and finally sat down on the couch to dream of the fulfillment of her cherished hope.

In about fifteen minutes, Ruth came back, accompanied by Miss White. The older woman looked sad as she took Marjorie’s hand, and spoke softly.

“I am so sorry, my dear, that this had to happen: that Ruth was tempted and fell, and you had to suffer. But she has done right to confess.”

“Oh, Miss White, I didn’t want her to tell any body else.”

“Yes, I know; she told me how noble you have been about it. But you have some rights, Marjorie. I shall tell Miss Allen to-morrow that there has been a mistake, and ask her permission to give you a special examination.”

“Tell her the truth!” exclaimed Ruth. “It isn’t fair for you to take the blame, Miss White.”

“I will tell her if she asks. Marjorie, can you come to my room at three to-morrow afternoon?”

“Certainly,” replied Marjorie.

Miss White opened the door. “Leave the matter in my hands, girls, and don’t worry about it any more.”

After she had gone, the girls went to bed, but said nothing more about the thing that was uppermost in their thoughts. It was Miss Allen and her attitude toward the matter that caused the most conjecture in the minds of both girls as they laid their heads upon their pillows that night.