"Ladies and gentlemen," began Lulu, speaking in the tone she had heard her mother use when conducting a meeting of a charitable board of which she was president, "I think every one is now here, and I must request you all please to keep quiet during the reading of the poems. After the reading, votes will be taken as to the best poem, and the girl who gets the most votes will be elected president of this Club. The boys are particularly requested not to laugh at any of the poems. The first to be read is by Miss Winifred Hamilton, and is called 'Ria and the Bear.' Miss Hamilton wishes me to explain that she has never heard the name Ria, but chose it because it was the only word she could think of that rhymed with fear."

There was a general titter from the audience, followed by a burst of applause, as Winifred, very red, and looking as if she were being led to execution, rose and announced:

"It's perfectly awful, but it's the first poem I ever wrote in my life, and I want to say that I sha'n't be in the least offended if everybody laughs." Then, unfolding a small sheet of paper, she began to read very fast.

"Bravo! Winifred, that's fine!" shouted Jack Randall, and then followed a shout of laughter, in which everybody joined, Winifred herself as heartily as any of the others.

"I told you it was awful," she said between gasps, "but Lulu said no one could be a member who didn't write a poem, so I had to do my best."

"I should die of mortification if I were laughed at like that," whispered Elsie to Carol, who sat next to her. To which her friend replied sympathetically:

"Of course you would, but then everybody isn't a genius like you."

"The next poem," announced Lulu, when order had been restored, "is by Miss Marjorie Graham of Arizona. Get up, Marjorie."

Marjorie's heart was beating rather fast as she rose, but there was a merry twinkle in her eye, and if her voice shook a little when she began to read, it was more from suppressed laughter than from fear.

A burst of genuine applause followed this production, and Marjorie sat down again quite covered with confusion.

"It's splendid; I couldn't have written anything half so good," whispered Betty encouragingly. "I am rather glad I am not to be a member of the Club, for I know I could never have written two lines that rhymed."

"The next poem," continued Lulu, in her business-like tone, "is by Miss Gertrude Rossiter," and Gertie, looking very much embarrassed, rose, and began:

There was more applause, mingled with laughter, and Elsie whispered to Carol, quite loud enough to be heard by several others:

"Did you ever hear anything so silly? Even the meter is wrong; there are too many words in some lines, and not enough in others."

"Read yours next, Lulu," said Winifred, before her friend could make another announcement. "Lulu writes beautiful poetry," she added in a lower tone to Jack Randall; "I'm crazy to know what she's written this time."

Lulu protested that as hostess her turn should come last, but several other girls joined their entreaties to Winifred's, and she was forced to yield. Blushing and smiling, she took a sheet of paper from her pocket, and began to read:

"Isn't she wonderful?" whispered Winifred excitedly to Jack. "I told you hers would be the best."

"It's very pretty," Jack admitted, "but I think I like the one about Ria and the Bear the best of all."

"The next poem," announced Lulu, when the applause had subsided, "is by Miss Elsie Carleton."

There was a little flutter of excitement as Elsie rose—as the brightest girl in the school, a good deal was expected of her. Some of the girls noticed with surprise, that Elsie had grown rather pale, but her voice was as calm and superior as ever, when she unfolded her paper, and began:

There was a general murmur of admiration, as Elsie sat down again, in the midst of a burst of applause louder than had greeted any of the other productions.

"Wasn't it lovely?" whispered Winifred to Jack, as she wiped her eyes. "I do love those sad pieces, don't you?"

"They're all right," said Jack, a little doubtfully, "but don't you like the funny ones that make you laugh, better? Ria and the Bear was so funny."

"That poem is really beautiful," declared Betty Randall, turning to Marjorie, and speaking in a tone of hearty admiration. "She must be an awfully clever girl to have written it; it's quite good enough to be published."

But Marjorie did not answer. She had given one violent start when Elsie began the first line of her poem, and at the same moment she had caught the expression on Beverly Randolph's face. After that she had sat quite still, with crimson cheeks, and a heart that was beating so loudly she was almost afraid people must hear it. In her mind was a mild confusion of feelings; astonishment, mortification, and incredulity, and, worst of all, the knowledge that at least one other person in the room besides herself knew. When the burst of applause came she was conscious of a momentary sensation of relief. At least no one was going to speak yet. She cast an imploring glance at Beverly, but his face expressed nothing beyond amusement and a sort of indifferent contempt.

There were more poems read; some funny, some sentimental; but Marjorie scarcely heard them. In her thoughts there was room but for one thing. Even the wonderful story Betty had told about her brother and Dr. Randolph was swept away in the shock of the discovery she had made. Several times she glanced at Elsie, fully expecting to see some expression of shame or remorse but that young lady was looking the picture of smiling content.

When the poems had all been read, there was a general move, and pencils and bits of paper were handed around.

"One of the boys will pass round a hat," Lulu explained, "and you must all drop your votes into it." Then, with a sudden generous impulse, she went up to Elsie and held out her hand.

"Yours was ever so much the best, Elsie," she said, frankly; "you certainly deserve to be president."

Elsie just touched the outstretched hand with the tips of her fingers, and for one moment her eyes dropped and her color deepened.

There was a moment of dead silence while the names were being written, then Gertie Rossiter's brother passed round the hat, and each girl and boy dropped a bit of paper into it.

"I shall vote for Elsie Carleton, sha'n't you?" whispered Betty to Marjorie, but Marjorie shook her head.

"I am going to vote for Lulu Bell," she said shortly.

It was an exciting moment when Beverly Randolph and Rob Rossiter—the two oldest boys present—counted the votes and announced the results: "Elsie Carleton, thirteen. Lulu Bell, nine. Marjorie Graham, five. Gertie Rossiter, three, and Winifred Hamilton, one."

The presidency of the Club was unanimously accorded to Elsie.

Then came an hour of games and dancing, followed at half-past nine, by light refreshments. But although Marjorie entered into the gayety with the rest, her heart was very heavy, and she did not join in the congratulations which were being showered upon the new president, in which even Lulu's mother and aunt, who had come downstairs as soon as the initiation was over, joined heartily. Beverly Randolph was a general favorite, and devoted himself in turn to almost every girl in the room, but he, too, held aloof from the new president. He and Marjorie had no opportunity for private conversation till the refreshments were being served, when he approached her corner, with a plate of ice-cream.

"Your 'Boring Life of New York' was fine," he remarked, pleasantly, taking the vacant chair by her side. "I quite agree with your sentiment. I voted for you."

"You are very kind," said Marjorie, blushing, "but it wasn't nearly as good as several of the others. Lulu's was splendid. You—you didn't like Elsie's?"

"No, I didn't," said Beverly bluntly, "and you didn't, either."

Marjorie's cheeks were crimson, but she made one desperate effort to save her cousin.

"It was a beautiful little poem," she faltered, "only—only I thought—but perhaps I was mistaken—I'm sure Elsie wouldn't have done such a thing; it must have been a mistake."

Beverly said nothing, but he did not look convinced.

"Where—where did you see it before?" Marjorie went on desperately.

"In an old volume of 'St. Nicholas' at home. My mother used to take the magazine when she was a little girl, and has all the volumes bound. I used to be very fond of some of the old stories, and so was my sister Barbara. I remember she learned that poem once to recite to Mother on her birthday."

Marjorie's heart sank like lead. Well did she remember the old worn volumes of St. Nicholas—relics of her own mother's childhood—over which she had pored on many a rainy day at home. She cast an appealing glance at Beverly.

"You won't tell?" she said unsteadily.

"Of course I won't; I'm not a cad. And look here, Marjorie; I wouldn't bother my head about it if I were you. Miss Elsie is quite able to fight her own battles."

"But she is my cousin," said Marjorie in a very low voice, "and I'm so ashamed."

Beverly's face softened, and his voice was very kind when he answered:

"You're a brick, Marjorie; lots of girls wouldn't care. But don't let it make you unhappy. If I were you I'd have it out with Elsie; perhaps she'll have some excuse to offer."

Before Marjorie could answer Lulu came up to ask Beverly to come and be introduced to Betty Randall, who was particularly anxious to meet him, and he was obliged to hurry away.

"What were you and that English girl talking about so long?" Elsie inquired, as she and Marjorie were driving home together half an hour later.

Marjorie roused herself from uncomfortable reflections with a start.

"Oh, nothing in particular," she said, "at least nothing you would be interested in. She was telling me about her brother, who used to be a cripple till Beverly Randolph's uncle cured him. He is a fine, strong-looking boy now—did you notice him?"

"Yes. Did you know their uncle was a lord?"

"Is he?" said Marjorie indifferently, and once more relapsed into silence. Elsie regarded her cousin in evident surprise.

"What's the matter, Marjorie?" she inquired curiously. "You seem to be in the dumps, and I'm sure I can't see why. You really danced much better than I supposed you could. You're not jealous, are you?"

"Jealous," repeated Marjorie, stupidly, "what about?"

"Why, your poem, of course, because you didn't get more votes. It really wasn't bad; I heard several of the girls say so."

"Of course I wasn't jealous," said Marjorie, indignantly. "I never dreamed of getting many votes. I think people were very kind to vote for me at all; it was just silly doggerel."

"Well, you needn't fly into a temper even if you're not jealous," laughed Elsie. "Do you know you never congratulated me on my poem. I think people thought it rather queer, when every one was saying how much they liked it."

"I couldn't," said Marjorie in a low voice.

"Why not?" demanded Elsie, sharply. She was evidently startled but beyond a slightly heightened color, she showed no sign of embarrassment.

"I'll tell you when we get home," whispered Marjorie, with a glance at Hortense, who was sitting in the opposite seat.

Not another word was spoken until the carriage drew up before the big hotel. Mr. and Mrs. Carleton were out, and the girls went at once to their rooms, without exchanging the usual good-nights. Marjorie's heart was beating painfully fast, and her cheeks were burning, but she did not waver in her determination to "have it out" with Elsie before they went to bed. So instead of beginning to undress, she sat down to wait until Hortense should have finished waiting on her cousin and gone away. She had, with some difficulty, at last succeeded in convincing the maid that she did not require assistance herself.

"Elsie will be terribly angry," she told herself mournfully, "and it will be very horrid and uncomfortable, but it wouldn't be honest not to let her know I recognized that poem. Perhaps she can explain—oh, I do hope she can—and then I can tell Beverly, and everything will be all right again."

She heard the outer door close behind Hortense, and was just about to go to her cousin's room, when her door was pushed unceremoniously open and Elsie herself came in. Elsie's cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were flashing, but whether with anger or excitement Marjorie could not tell.

"Well," she began in a tone which she evidently intended to be quite cheerful and indifferent, "I've gotten rid of Hortense. She seemed to think she ought to stay till Papa and Mamma came home, but I told her we didn't need her. Now you can tell me what you said you would when we got home. Do be quick about it, though, for I'm awfully sleepy, and I want to go to bed."

Before answering Marjorie went over to her cousin's side, and laid a timid hand on her shoulder.

"Elsie," she said gently, "I'm so sorry; I hate to say it, but I've got to. It's—about that poem; I've read it before. You didn't think you really made it up, did you?"

With an angry gesture Elsie pushed away her cousin's hand.

"Of course I made it up," she said angrily; "how dare you say I didn't? I don't believe you ever saw a poem like it before in your life; you only say so because you're jealous."

"Oh, Elsie, how can you say such dreadful things?" cried poor Marjorie, clasping her hands in her distress, and on the verge of tears. "How could I possibly be jealous of any one so much cleverer than myself? I've been so proud of you, Elsie—indeed, indeed I have—but I read that poem in an old 'St. Nicholas' at home. I remembered it because it was so pretty. Beverly Randolph remembers it, too; he—"

"Beverly Randolph!" cried Elsie, her eyes flashing ominously; "so you told him about it, did you? That accounts for his not congratulating me when all the others did. Marjorie Graham, you are the meanest, most contemptible girl I have ever known. To think of your doing such a thing after all Papa and Mamma have done for you! But if you suppose for one moment that any one is going to take your word against mine, you'll find yourself very much mistaken. I shall write a note to Beverly Randolph to-morrow. A nice opinion he must have of you already—boys hate sneaks."

"I'm not a sneak," retorted Marjorie, her own eyes beginning to flash. "I wouldn't have told Beverly Randolph or any one else such a thing for the world; I would have been ashamed to have them know. He recognized the poem, too. I saw he did the minute you began to read—and afterwards he spoke of it. But he won't tell; he promised not to, and—oh, Elsie I thought you might be able to explain it in some way."

"There isn't anything to explain," said Elsie, obstinately. "If you and that horrid Randolph boy choose to say wicked things about me you can, but you are not everybody, and when my friends hear about it I think they'll have something to say." And without another word, Elsie walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her, and her cousin was left to cry herself to sleep undisturbed.