"Well, it certainly was a great success!" said the Scapegoat. It was the day after the reception, and she had drifted into the Owls' Nest toward twilight, and now stood by the mantelpiece, swaying backward and forward in the light, wind-blown way she had.

"A great success!" she repeated, thoughtfully. "Why, it was actually pleasant! How did you manage it?"

"We didn't manage it," said honest Bertha. "It just came so. Everybody was ready to have a good time, and had it; that was all."

"More than that!" said Grace, absent-mindedly. "There has to be a knack, or something, and you have it. I haven't. I couldn't do it, even if I wanted to, and I don't think I do."

"Do what?" said the Snowy.

"Be an Owl!" said Grace. Suddenly she left her hold of the shelf, and turned upon them almost fiercely.

"Why should I?" she exclaimed. "Tell me that, will you? It is all natural to you. Your blood flows quietly, and you like quiet, orderly ways, and never want to throw things about, or smash a window. I tell you I have to, sometimes. Look here!"

She caught up a vase from the shelf, and seemed on the point of flinging it through the closed window, but Gertrude laid her hand on her arm firmly. "You may have a right to throw your own things, my dear," she said, good-naturedly. "You have no possible right to throw mine, and 'with all respect, I do object!'"

Grace gave a short laugh, and set the vase down again; but she still looked frowningly at the two girls, and presently she went on.

"It's all very well for you, I tell you. You have a home, and a—my mother died when I was five years old. My father—"

"Grace, dear," said Gertrude; "come and sit down here by me, and tell me about your mother. I have seen her picture; she must have been lovely."

But Grace shook her head fiercely.

"My father is an actor, and I want to be one, too, but he promised my mother before she died—she didn't want me to be one. What do I care about all this stuff we are learning here? I tell you I want to take a tambourine and go on the road with a hand-organ man. That would be life! I would, too, if I only had the luck to have hair and eyes like yours, Fluffy."

"You could wear a wig, of course," said Bertha, soberly. "The eyes would be a difficulty, though, I'm afraid."

"Well, I am here now! and I'm supposed to stay another year, and then go to college. Four—five years more of bondage, and tasks, and lectures on good behaviour! Am I likely to stand it, I ask you?"

"I hope so!" said Gertrude, steadily. "It would be a thousand pities if you didn't, Grace, and you know it as well as I do."

"And if I do, it must be in my own way!" cried the wild girl, swinging round again on her heel. "And if I can make things more endurable here—if I can get rid of—it must be in my own way, I tell you. Snowy, you are like your name, I suppose. You are white and gold and calm,—I don't know what you are, except that we are not of the same flesh. I tell you, I turn to fire inside! I must break out, I must go off when the fit comes on me. I do no harm! It doesn't hurt anybody for me to go down the wall and cool myself with a run in the fields. Why can't I be let alone? I am not a child! I tell you it is the way I am made!"

The Snowy Owl rose, and, going to the fireplace, laid her arm around Grace's shoulder.

"You are making yourself!" she said. "It's your own life, Wolf; are you making it worse or better?"

"I'm not doing either. I am taking it as it comes, as it was meant to come."

Gertrude shook her head quietly.

"That can't be!" she said. "That is impossible, Wolf. We have to be growing one way or the other; we can't stay as we are, for a year or a day. And there's another thing: you don't seem to think about the others, about the effect on the school. If you are to break the laws, why should not every one do the same?"

"Because they are different!" said Grace, sullenly.

"You don't know that! They may have the same temptations, and be stronger than you to resist them. You ought to be a strong girl, Grace, and, instead of that, you are weak—as weak as water."

"Weak? I!" cried Grace, her eyes blazing. "If any one else had said that to me, Gertrude Merryweather, I would—"

"But no one else would say it to you!" said Gertrude. "Because no one else—except Miss Russell—cares as much as I do—Fluffy and I. We love you too much, Grace, to flatter you and follow you, as most of them do. I tell you, and you may take it as simple truth, for it is nothing else, that which you think strength is simply weakness,—lamentable weakness. And as for your influence on the other girls—just listen a moment!"

Taking up a little book from the table, she opened it—indeed it seemed to open of its own accord at the place—and read:

There was silence when she finished reading. Then—"What is that?" asked Grace, stretching out her hand. "Give it to me!"

"Emerson. Take him home with you, and let him talk to you; he speaks well."

Grace took the book, looked it over, and dropped it into her pocket. For a moment she leaned her head against Gertrude's arm, and a sigh broke from her involuntarily. Then, all in a moment, a change came. Her face lightened in an indescribable way, and her eyebrows lifted with a look that both girls knew well.

"And have you heard the news?" she said. "There is a rumour that my Puggy leaves me at the end of the term. How to exist, I ask you, without her? Othello's occupation would be gone indeed."

"No! is it true? Why is she going? What does it mean?"

Grace shrugged her shoulders with an elfish gesture.

"How should I know? It appears she sees ghosts. A ghost must be hard up, one would think, to visit my Puggy; there ought to be an asylum for impoverished spectres. Would you subscribe for it, Owls? Good-bye! I must go. You mean well, and I don't bear malice. Oh! by the by,—" she came back for an instant, and stood balancing herself on one foot and looking round the edge of the door, and she certainly looked hardly human,—"I forgot the thing I came for. Stand by the Innocent this evening, will you, if she should get into trouble? I am sent for to the study, and shall be in for a good hour's lecture, and then bed."

"What do you mean, Goat? What is it?" asked both girls, anxiously. But the Goat was gone.

Peggy was enjoying herself extremely. She had learned all her lessons, for a wonder, and now she had curled herself up in a corner with the "Jungle Book," and the rest of the world was forgotten. There was nobody, there never had been anybody, but Mowgli and the Wolves. She had hunted with them, she had slain Shere-Khan, she had talked with Baloo and Bagheera. Her outdoor nature had responded in every fibre to the call of the Master of Magic, and he filled her with joy and wonder. As the Snowy had said, the worlds were opening, and the doors thereof.

Things being thus with her, she hardly heard her own door open softly. Before she had torn her eyes from the enchanted page, the room was filled with silent, flitting figures—as it had been often filled before. The girls nodded to her with silent laughter and friendly gestures. In another moment they would have been at the window; but Peggy was not dreaming now. In an instant she had sprung from her corner among the cushions, and stood before the window, with arms outspread. "No!" she said.

The girls recoiled, paused, in amazement. There were six of them: the two V's, Blanche Haight, and three other sophomores. Peggy saw with a throb of joy that Grace Wolfe was not among them. That would have made it harder.

"What does this mean?" asked Vivia Varnham, with her cold smile. "You have never made any trouble before, Peggy; isn't it rather late in the day?"

"Oh, she's only in fun!" cried Viola Vincent. "Aren't you, Veezy-vee? Why, she's acting, girls, and she does it elegantly. It's perf'ly fine, Veezy-vee. I didn't know you had it in you."

"No, I am not acting," said Peggy, quietly. "I am sorry, girls, but you can't go out. You never can go out again, so long as I am here."

"Upon my word!" cried Blanche Haight, who had not spoken yet. "This seems to be a pretty state of things. Perhaps you are not aware, Miss Montfort, that this exit was used, long before you came to adorn the school with your presence. We acknowledge no right of yours to forbid us the use of it. Stand out of the way, please."

For a reply, Peggy backed against the window; her face assumed an expression with which her family was acquainted.

"When Peggy looks dour," Jean used to say, "look out for rising winds and a falling barometer!"

Then Viola came forward, and began to plead, in her pretty, wheedling way.

"Let us go, just this once; that's a dear, good Veezy. I know what has happened; Miss Russell has found out, hasn't she?"

Peggy nodded.

"And she has spoken to you, and of course I know just how you feel. But you see, Peggy, we have an appointment this time, truly we have, with some college girls, and you wouldn't make us break it, would you, Veezy? Of course you don't want us to go, and we won't again,—at least most probably we won't, if it is going to get you into trouble. But we really have to go this time, Peggy, dear, so do be nice and sweet, and let us pass."

"No," said Peggy. "I'm sorry, Viola, but it's no use. Nothing you can say will make any difference."

"Possibly not!" said Blanche Haight; she pushed Viola aside without ceremony, and came close to Peggy.

"Possibly nothing we can say will make a difference, Miss Montfort, but something we can do may make a good deal. I ask you, fair and square, will you come away from that window? We are six to one, and I give you the chance of settling this in a quiet and friendly way. Will you come away from that window?"

"No," said Peggy, "I will not. Is that square enough?"

"Then, girls," said Blanche, turning to her followers, "we must help ourselves. We shall see whether one freshman is going to block the way of the Gang! You take one arm, Viola, and I'll take the other."

"Oh, don't hurt her!" cried Viola. "Don't hurt her, Blanche. I'm awfully fond of Peggy. I know she only means to do what she thinks she ought to. Peggy, do give up! You are all alone, and there are six of us. Do give up, Peggy; for my sake, Peggy! I—I'll give you my gold bangle, the one with the locket, if you'll only give up, Peggy!"

Peggy smiled, and said nothing. She could not be angry with the little butterfly, but there was no use in wasting breath; she might need all she had.

Blanche Haight seized one arm, Vivia Varnham the other, and tried to drag her away from the window by main force. With her favourite Newfoundland-dog motion, Peggy shook them off, planted a quick blow here, another there, and her assailants staggered back for a moment. In another instant, however, they returned to the attack, and this time the other sophomores joined, and all five threw themselves on Peggy. Once more she shook them off, but they closed in again, and a struggle began, all the more fierce that no word was spoken, no cry uttered. No cry, that is, by the combatants. When the five set upon Peggy, Viola ran in and made an effort to pull them off, with piteous entreaties. But no one paid the smallest heed to her, and the poor little butterfly, frightened and distressed, burst into tears, and ran away.

At the same moment, any one who had been listening in quiet might have heard a singular sound that seemed to come from above, from outside—no one could tell from where; the cry of an owl, followed by a long, low howl. Three times this was repeated; and many a junior, studying under her lamp, looked up and said, "What is up now, I wonder?" for the sound recalled freshman days, before the Lone Wolf and the two Owls had come to the parting of the ways.

Three minutes later, two figures, speeding silently along Corridor A, were met at a turn by a third, which flung itself sobbing upon them.

"Oh, Snowy, oh, Fluffy, they are killing Peggy Montfort! I was coming to call you—oh, be quick! be quick!"

Without stopping, somehow the Snowy Owl managed to open a door and thrust Viola in. It was to be noticed that neither girl looked at her. They ran on, swift and silent.

Indeed, it was time! Peggy's lip was bleeding, where Vivia Varnham's head had struck against it as she fell, tripped by a pretty trick that was learned on the Western farm. Her hair was dragged down and hung in her eyes, her dress was torn in a dozen places. With one of her sudden movements she had thrown off her assailants, and stood for an instant alone, looking the very Spirit of Battle, with blazing eyes and scarlet cheeks. Blanche Haight rushed at her again, and this time Peggy seized her around the waist in a deadly grip. The others closed in once more, furious, determined this time to finish with the insolent freshman. It was like to go hard with Peggy Montfort this time.

What happened? A flash, the glance of an eye, and all was changed. The assailants fell back, staggering across the room, gasping and staring; and the Snowy and the Fluffy Owl were standing shoulder to shoulder with Peggy, one on either side, with stern and angry looks.

For a moment there was dead silence, save for the hard breathing as Blanche Haight tried to wriggle out of the iron grasp that held her—in vain! Then Gertrude Merryweather spoke.

"Miss Varnham, Miss Floyd, Miss Johnson, Miss White, Miss—who is this?—Miss Haight. Found out of bounds and out of hours, making a disturbance in the rooms. To be reported to the Principal. Go to your rooms, if you please!"

Was this the Snowy Owl, gentle and friendly, beloved of all? No! it was the Junior President and the Monitor of Corridor A. She might have been an avenging angel as she stood there, tall and white and severe.

Her face softened as she bent over Peggy. "You can let her go now!" she said. "We are here, Peggy, Bertha and I. It is all right! Let her go, child!"

Slowly and reluctantly Peggy loosed her hold, and Blanche, half-fainting, dropped upon the bed. She looked with feeble venom at the two rescuers.

"Spying, eh?" she whispered. "Very dignified, I'm sure, for a president. That little sneak Viola Vincent was here too, mind! Put her down in your precious report."

"I don't see Miss Vincent here!" said Gertrude, coldly. "Go to your rooms, if you please! I think I understand the case thoroughly, Blanche, thank you. Will you go, or shall we help you?"

But Blanche preferred to go unaided. Silent as they had come, they slunk away, flitting like shadows along the corridor. And when they were gone, the two Owls sat down on the bed and took Peggy between them, and rocked, and petted, and soothed her; for lo! the Goddess of Battle was crying like a three years' child.