“Good-bye! good-bye!” shouted the twenty-four happy little girls, leaning out of the windows and waving their handkerchiefs, as the train pulled out of the station the following afternoon. The scouts watched it until it was out of sight; then they turned towards the school.

Marjorie took Doris’s arm. “I never had such a good time in my life before,” she said. “Oh, didn’t they enjoy themselves, though! And wasn’t that tiny little one cute?”

Before they had taken many steps, they met Dorothy Maxwell, coming from the school.

“Where is Miss Phillips?” she asked, with concern.

“Back with Lily, I think,” answered Marjorie. “But what is the matter, Dot? You look as if something dreadful has happened!”

“Well, it has! Helen’s pretty badly hurt!”

“Helen Stewart? When she fell off the swing?” “Yes; I guess her ankle’s sprained, at least; maybe it’s something even worse!”

By this time Miss Phillips and the rest of the scouts had reached the spot where the girls had stopped, and they all crowded around, asking questions.

“I will go to her at once,” said Miss Phillips, hurrying off with Dorothy.

The girls resumed walking. “Suppose she can’t take part in the play,” suggested Ethel. “She’s leading lady, you know!”

“I think that is what Miss Phillips thought of first, but of course she wouldn’t say anything,” said Ruth.

“Nobody else could ever take her place at this late date,” said Doris; “besides, we all have our own parts. What would we do?”

“Oh, maybe she’ll be all right by then,” said Marjorie. “Don’t let’s worry till we hear what the doctor says.”

But the doctor’s diagnosis proved worse than any of their fears. Helen was suffering from a complicated fracture; it would be necessary for her to be taken home on a stretcher and kept flat on her back for several weeks; any participation in the play was, of course, out of the question.

Miss Phillips called a special meeting of the scouts that night. She was more disturbed than the girls had ever seen her.

“It’s all my fault,” she said, “for not having appointed an understudy. Why was I so thoughtless?”

“Couldn’t you take the part yourself, Captain?” suggested Ethel. “You must pretty nearly know it already!”

“I do; but I’m too tall. And I wouldn’t mind that if it were to be given just for our own school. But think of the outsiders who will be here! With commencement in the morning, Miss Allen says almost all the visitors are planning to stay over for the play. And Miss Martin’s whole school are coming especially to see it!” She covered her eyes with her hands, and uttered a long sigh.

“Captain,” said Ruth, suddenly, “I have the solution! Let Marjorie take it! She’s splendid at dramatics.”

Miss Phillips raised her head quickly. Marjorie blushed as all eyes were turned upon her.

“Will you do it?” asked Miss Phillips.

“I can try.”

Miss Phillips’s face expressed blissful relief: she could rely upon Marjorie, who always did things well; she need worry no longer.

All that week, Marjorie studied and rehearsed. When the dress-rehearsal came, on Friday evening, the girls praised her performance; but she herself was not satisfied: she realized that her acting was stilted, and Miss Phillips was forced to agree with her when she asked for her opinion.

“But it’s all right, Marjorie,” the Captain added; “you can’t expect to do as well as Helen could, after she had practiced it for weeks.”

But Marjorie did expect to do as well as Helen, and she made up her mind to surpass her. She put the play aside from her thoughts, played a game of cribbage with Lily, and went to bed early.

Miss Phillips had planned to give the play in the outdoor theater if the day were fine. When Marjorie opened her eyes that morning and saw the bright sunlight, it was naturally the first thing she thought of. It would be so much prettier to have a background of real trees; and she felt that with such perfect surroundings she could do greater justice to the part.

Soon after breakfast, visitors began to arrive. The Wilkinsons did not especially care to attend the commencement exercises, but promised to get Jack, and drive over in the machine in time to see the play. Ruth’s father and mother were coming by train.

The programs had already been printed with Helen Stewart’s name as leading lady, and Marjorie had not told her family of her part in the play. It was enough for them to know that she was at last a Girl Scout; and she did not wish to have them disappointed if her acting did not equal their expectations.

Marjorie accompanied Ruth to meet the train on which her father and mother would arrive. They passed groups of visitors at frequent intervals on the path, and they saw the seniors, in their white dresses, many of them carrying American Beauty roses, here and there on the campus. Off under the trees, near the library, was the out-door auditorium; they distinguished Miss Phillips, directing the workmen in the final decoration of the stage.

Marjorie was not nearly so nervous as she had been the day before. Everything had turned out so well that she felt that she must succeed now; the weather, the gayety of the occasion, and her own calmness reassured her.

“So you’re a Girl Scout at last!” said Mrs. Henry to Marjorie, as they walked from the train. Her tone was a trifle condescending, as if to call attention to the fact that she had just attained a distinction which her own daughter had long since gained. Ruth noticed it and hastened to dispel her feeling.

“You might say Marj is the Girl Scout!” she exclaimed. “She’s leading lady in the play this afternoon!” “Really! Your father and mother didn’t tell me.”

“They don’t know it yet,” said Marjorie. “It’s to be a surprise!”

“They have a surprise for you, too, if I’m not mistaken,” said Mrs. Henry mysteriously.

Marjorie’s curiosity was aroused, but she did not have long to wait. In less than an hour, the Wilkinsons’ machine drove up to the school. Marjorie rushed down the stairs to meet it. And she had not one, but two surprises. John Hadley sat on the front seat beside Jack; in his arms he held a huge box which he handed shyly to Marjorie.

“I may not be on hand when you graduate,” he said, “so I brought you some roses to wear to-day.”

Blushingly, she thanked him, and opened the box. “I will wear one this afternoon,” she thought, but said nothing about the play; she wanted to reserve her surprise till later. She hunted Ruth, and Mr. and Mrs. Henry, and the party went in to luncheon together.

Both girls excused themselves soon afterwards to see whether they could help Miss Phillips. Jack and John hunted seats for the older people, and they watched the crowd gather.

Mrs. Wilkinson glanced at the names on the program. “I see Ruth is in the play,” she said, addressing Mrs. Henry.

“Yes,” replied the latter, remembering Marjorie’s desire to keep the knowledge of her participation from her parents.

Jack was impatient for the play to begin; but he did not conceal the fact that his interest was centered in Ruth. His enthusiasm, however, failed to find a response in John, who hoped that since Marjorie was not in the play, she might come and sit with them. For some minutes he tried to save a seat beside him, but as the theater became more crowded, he abandoned the idea.

Finally, the school orchestra began to play, and soon after that the play commenced. There was no curtain; the characters entered from behind the platform.

When Mrs. Wilkinson saw Marjorie, she exclaimed aloud, “Look, Sam! Can that be our Marjorie?”

John also leaned forward intently. Mrs. Henry watched him, smiling.

“By George, it is!” cried Jack. “And she looks ripping, too!”

Marjorie did more than look “ripping,” as her brother expressed it. The culmination of events, the recent successes, the gratification of her dearest wishes, and the excitement of the moment, so inspired her that she entered, for the time, into the peculiar state of mental detachment which actors sometimes experience. From the instant she came upon the stage until the end, she ceased to exist as Marjorie Wilkinson, so completely did she enter into the spirit of Everygirl; and yet, subconsciously, she seemed to realize that this was to be the final, crowning achievement. Strangers exclaimed at her ability, and the whole audience again and again applauded the talent she displayed in her acting. Once more Marjorie was the heroine of the day; but, unlike the time of the basket-ball game, Ruth was not jealous. It was she who had suggested her for the part, and she rejoiced in her triumph. The old friendship was revived with a new meaning; Ruth had profited by her experiences.

After the play was over, and everyone had congratulated Marjorie, Jack turned to Mrs. Henry and asked whether Ruth might not be allowed to ride home in their machine.

“If she wants to,” agreed Mrs. Henry. And it was plain to be seen from the girl’s expression that she needed no second invitation.

The girls changed into their suits, and came out again. The baggage had been sent by train. Miss Phillips, Doris, and Lily accompanied them to the machine.

“A month from to-day!” said Miss Phillips, as she kissed the girls good-bye. “I’ll write you the details.”

Marjorie leaned back in the machine and smiled dreamily; she was very happy. She had been made a Girl Scout; she was now going home for vacation—with Jack, and John Hadley, and Ruth to help her to enjoy it; and the week of camping during the following month loomed bright in anticipation.

“Remember going away last fall, Marj?” asked Ruth, interrupting her reverie. “It has all turned out different from what we expected, hasn’t it?”

“Different, and better!” said Marjorie, with a deep sigh of contentment.

How the Troop spent their vacation will be told in the next volume of this series, “The Girl Scouts at Camp.”

THE END

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