Kathryn von Wellering was lying back in her luxuriously upholstered reclining chair reading a novel with a title, which would have won the disapproval of Miss Snoopins if she had been able to find its hiding place, which, as yet, she had not.

The tall, dark girl, whose truly beautiful face was marred by a hard, selfish expression, unusual in one so young (for Kathryn was but sixteen), sat up when there came a light tap on her door.

“Come in,” she called languidly as she reached toward a small table nearby and took a chocolate from an elaborately beribboned box. “You’re five minutes late,” she addressed the two girls who had entered in a petulant manner.

Belle Wiley, plump, pretty, with wavy light hair, and clear hazel eyes, was followed by Anne Peterson who was tall and willowy, but whose yellowish eyes held an expression which suggested that she was not sincere. These girls were fifteen years of age, and, though their fathers were not as wealthy as Kathryn’s, she had chosen them to take the places of the two former members of “The Exclusive Three.” It was hard to understand why the pleasant-faced Belle Wiley was an admirer of Kathryn’s, but Anne Petersen was undeniably a girl whom their leader would choose as a comrade.

“Why did you call a meeting today, Kathryn?” Belle inquired. She remained standing, although Anne had at once seated herself among the soft pillows on a deep comfortable chair, and had helped herself to candy, not waiting to be asked.

Kathryn Von Wellering lifted her dark eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders. “Should the dictates of a leader be questioned?” she inquired.

She turned toward the girl who was seated, and Anne at once replied. “I’ll say not. You may send for me at any old time. Whatever you’re scheming, you may count on me, old dear, I’m game.”

“That’s what I call loyalty.” Kathryn smiled, though she ended it with an almost cynical lifting of one eyebrow. Then to Belle, who was still lingering near the door, she said impatiently, “For goodness sakes, sit down! What’s the big idea anyway, of seeming to be in such a rush? You haven’t a pressing engagement in some other part of the school, have you?”

“Probably she’s going to squeal your whole plan to that teacher’s darling, Virginia Davis.” This rather sarcastically, while the speaker helped herself to another candy.

Kathryn’s expression was not a pleasant one. “Belle Wiley,” she said, threateningly, “if you tell, I’ll——well, be warned in time. Now sit down and behave! Have a chocolate. You certainly need sweetening!”

The girl addressed, reluctantly seated herself and their leader leaned forward to say with an intensity which she seldom gave to anything. “I hate her! I simply hate that upstart from the desert. And what’s more, I hate all of her friends.”

Belle interrupted. She was seeing the girl whom she had idealized as she truly was, for the first time, although she had had disconcerting glimpses since Kathryn began trying to win the editorship.

She now said, “I can’t understand why you hate Virginia Davis. I was talking with Dicky Taylor today. We stood next each other in gym, and she told me that Virginia doesn’t want to be editor and would be pleased if someone else had it, but Miss Torrence insists that she keep it.”

“Well, when Miss Torrence finds that the first copy of the magazine is a failure, perhaps she will be glad to let me have the place. She said, herself, that my story was one of the very best submitted.”

Anne Petersen laughed as though at a joke that amused her, but Belle sitting on the very edge of her chair, blurted out with, “Yes, but you know as well as we do, that the story you submitted was not original.”

Kathryn’s eyes flashed dangerously, then she nearly closed them and regarded the rebellious member narrowly. “You are mistaken, Miss Wiley. My contribution was original, as all of my compositions have been since I entered this school.”

“Yes, original, I’ll agree,” Belle hurried on fearlessly, “but not original by you.”

“Oh, I say, cut out the wrangle. What’s the big idea, Belle? Where did you unearth a conscience?” This from Anne, who had put her prettily slippered feet on a stool and was looking at them admiringly. “Say, Kathryn, old dear, those were spiffy silk hose that you gave me. I wish my padre had money enough to buy silk things for me, but he thinks paying my tuition is all that is necessary.”

Then with a questioning glance at Belle. “Where are the silk stockings Kathryn gave you? I thought you were mighty pleased yesterday when you received them.”

Belle flushed and put her hand in the deep pocket of her dark blue school dress. She drew out a small, neatly wrapped bundle. This she placed on the table. “I can’t accept them,” she declared. “I thought at first that they were meant merely as a gift of friendship, but, when I got to thinking it over, I knew they were meant to pay me for having been untrue to myself.”

“Hi-ho! Hear the young preacher! Any wings started?” Anne’s taunt was interrupted by a now thoroughly angry Kathryn. “Belle Wiley,” she said, “for the past month you’ve been hanging around my room, morning, noon and night, telling me how much you admired me and hoping that some day there’d be something you could do to show me how much you liked me, and now, the very first thing I ask you to do, you act up in this way.”

“But it wasn’t right. It wasn’t honest; the thing you asked me to do.”

“Indeed? I merely asked you to write so poor a story that Miss Torrence would find it unfit to use in the first copy of The Manuscript Magazine. You did it. Nobody could have written a poorer one.”

Anne stopped munching chocolates. Leaning forward, she said: “And, of course, since we had done that simple little thing for Kathy, she wanted to show her appreciation in some nice way and she gave us each a pair of silk stockings. I call that a mighty fine friend to have, myself.”

Belle rose as though she were about to go. “I’m sorry, Kathryn,” and there was a little break in her voice. “I hate to be a piker and I know you both believe that I am, but until today, I didn’t see things in the right light. I did love you, Kathryn, and when you care for anybody, don’t you understand, it’s awfully hard for you to believe that—,” she hesitated miserably, but bravely kept on, “that your ideal is not on the square. When I came in here and found you copying the story you submitted for the contest, I just couldn’t believe my eyes. You said at first it was a story you had written long ago, but afterwards you confided to us that you were on easy street, for a cousin of yours in Boston who was a crack at composition, sent one every week for you to read and—”

Kathryn pretended to yawn. “Please bring the sermon to an end. I’m glad to have found out in time just how unworthy a friend you are, Belle. Goodness, it scares me, when I realize how near I came to letting you in on the reason for which I called this meeting. Please close the door after you as you leave.” The words were calm, but there was a glint in the dark, half-closed eyes that was threatening. Belle knew that she had been dismissed. At the door she turned to repeat, “I’m sorry, Kathryn, but I can’t——”

“Just be careful what you say and do,” was the warning that followed the retreating girl. She heard the key turn in the lock, then she went to her room to sob out her disappointment in her friend.

“Well, this is what comes of taking one of the common people into your confidence.” Kathryn walked to the window when she had locked the door and looked out at a snow-covered campus. “I knew, of course, that Belle’s father was a tradesman, and, out of this seminary, I most certainly would not have associated with her.” Anne winced. Her own father’s profession was not one followed by aristocrats. He conducted a pool room in the Middle West. How she hoped Kathryn knew nothing of this.

“What is your father’s—er—occupation?” Anne feared business would sound too crude.

Kathryn replied without turning around, “He is a Wall Street financier.” High sounding surely, but meaning nothing to the listener.

“Oh, don’t mind, Belle.” Anne was searching through the box to find a candy of the kind she liked best. “There’s one thing about her, and that is, you can count on her not to squeal. She’s dropped out of this thing because—well, because, you know, it isn’t honest. Some girls are queer that way, they’d rather be honest than wear silk stockings.” Anne was again admiring her silk-covered ankles.

She did not see the scornful turn to Kathryn’s thin lips. “I did not consider myself dishonest, Miss Petersen,” she said coldly.

Anne laughed. “Gracious guns, Kathy! Don’t put on any high and mighty airs with me. I don’t care how many compositions of your cousin’s you copy, but I repeat, Belle is right, it isn’t considered honest.”

“I didn’t say that story was original by me,” Kathryn retorted. “I wrote in the upper left hand corner, as Miss Torrence has requested. ‘This is an original story written by Kathryn Von Wellering. This story was original by my cousin and the handwriting was mine.’”

Anne sat up and opened her yellowish eyes wide, as though in surprise.

“Say, Kathryn, are you trying to convince yourself, or me, that black is white? ’Tisn’t necessary at all, as I stated before. It is black, clear through, you and I know it, just as well as Belle knew it, only we aren’t worrying about it. For Pat’s sake forget it, and proceed with the meeting. I came here (though I’m supposed to be practicing), because I understood that you had something important to say. If you have, spiel along, for I’ve got to be down in the music room in five minutes. That’s when Miss King looks in to see if I’m on duty. Luckily for me Esther Dorset wanted to practice half an hour longer, but the time’s most up.”

Kathryn regarded the speaker through half-closed eyes as was her custom. “I suppose you call that honest.”

“Me? Not at all! I knew if that piano was silent, Miss King would be down there in two minutes to see why I wasn’t practicing, but with Esther running scales as she is, I’ll get the credit, don’t you see, old dear? Hurry on now, what is it you wanted to say?”

Kathryn had seated herself but instead of speaking she looked into the fire. At length she said, “When people aren’t honest, you can’t be sure that you can trust them.” Then with a sudden quick glance, “You and I aren’t sure we can trust each other, are we?”

“Not at all!” agreed Anne. “But I’d trust Belle with anything. She’s a mighty fine little girl, Belle is.” Then rising and stretching languidly—“Well, so long, guess you’ve changed your mind about coming out with your plan.”

Kathryn made an impatient gesture. “Sit down. Since you’ve been so frank with me, telling me just what I am, at least I’ll ask your advice.”

Anne dropped into her chair again as she said, “You flatter me, old dear, but make it snappy. I do want to get in half an hour at the piano.”

Kathryn was still looking in the fire. “I thought,” she began, “that when you two girls handed in such poor compositions it would be too late to get others for this month’s Manuscript Magazine, but today I hear that a new pupil has arrived who has submitted three stories and two poems and that Miss Torrence is delighted with them.”

“Well, what next? You didn’t call a meeting merely to tell us that.” Anne glanced at her wrist watch.

“No, of course not.” Kathryn’s dark eyes searched her friend’s face.

“This is the night the teachers assemble in Mrs. Martin’s office for their Faculty Meetings.”

“Yes, so it is. But I’m still in the dark.” Anne looked somewhat interested, and even more curious.

“Dark? That’s what it will be, for there isn’t a moon, and, what’s more, the clouds are so heavy, it will probably snow.”

“Which means?” Anne couldn’t imagine what Kathryn was planning. “Which means that you and I could slip over to Pine Cabin while Miss Torrence is here and—well—it wouldn’t be hard to get in her study window. I heard her say last week that the lock is broken but that she wasn’t afraid.”

Anne looked more puzzled than shocked. “What would we do in her study? She hasn’t anything I want.”

“Stupid! She has all of the contributions for the magazine in her desk. I saw them there today when I went to return a book.”

“Oh-h! Light is dawning. You want to get them?”

“Yes, and burn them. Then where will their Manuscript Magazine be for this month?” Anne had risen. She hesitated before replying. Kathryn saw this. Going to her dresser, she picked up a bracelet set with blue stones. “Here, you may have it.” Anne’s expression was hard for the watcher to interpret. The yellowish eyes were admiring the sparkle deep in the stones. Kathryn breathed a sigh of relief when Anne slipped on the bracelet. “Thanks, old dear,” she said. “I’ll drop in about eight.”