Nance did get a telegram from her mother that afternoon. It was very vague about trains and merely said: “Arrive in Wellington about two this afternoon. Meet me. Mother.”

Fortunately, the girls were as familiar with the train schedule as with their own class schedules, and knew exactly what train she meant.

“It’s the two-fifteen, of course,” announced Judy. “Shall we go down with you to meet her, Nance?”

“Why, yes; I think mother would like that very much,” answered Nance, pleased with the idea. “She loves attention.”

Therefore, when the two-fifteen pulled into Wellington station, our three freshmen, together with Margaret Wakefield heading a deputation from the Freshman Suffrage Club, and Miss Bowles, teacher in Higher Mathematics, were waiting on the platform.

“There she is!” cried Nance, with a note of eagerness in her voice that made Molly’s heart ache.

They all moved forward to meet a gaunt, tired-looking woman, with a sallow, faded complexion and a nervous manner; but her brilliant, clear brown eyes offset her unprepossessing appearance. Glowing with intelligence and with feverish energy they flashed their message to the world, like two mariner’s lights at sea, and those who caught that burning glance forgot the tired face and distraught manner of the woman of clubs.

“How are you, my dear?” she said, kissing Nance quite casually, without noticing where the kiss was going to land, and scarcely glancing at her daughter.

She had evidently been making notes on the trip down and still carried a pencil and some scrap paper in one hand, while the other grasped her suit case, of which Nance promptly relieved her. She shook hands cordially with Miss Bowles, and the girls whom Nance introduced, searching the face of each, as a recruiting officer might examine applicants for the army. Then they all climbed into the bus and presently she plunged into a discussion with Miss Bowles on the advance of the suffrage movement in England and America.

“And this is the woman,” whispered Judy to Molly dramatically, “who has spoken before legislatures and represented the suffrage party abroad and been regent of Colonial Dames and President of National Societies for the Purification of Politics and—and lecturer on ‘The History of Legislation——’”

“How under the sun can you remember it all?” interrupted Molly.

“I don’t think I have got them straight,” answered Judy, “but they all sound alike, anyhow, so what’s the odds?”

Molly discreetly took herself off to Judy’s room that afternoon, leaving Nance and her mother together for the short time that elapsed before the lecture was to begin. But Nance soon followed them.

“Mother wants to be alone,” she said. “She has some notes to look over, and she has never read her day-before-yesterday’s mail yet. By the way, you are not going to the lecture, are you?”

“Of course we are,” answered the girls in the same breath.

“But the walk?”

“That can be postponed until to-morrow,” answered Molly promptly. “The boys are going to spend the night at the McLean’s, you know.”

Thus Nance’s happiness was all arranged for by her two devoted friends.

The gymnasium was only half full when the girls escorted “the most distinguished clubwoman in America” across the campus and into the great hall. The freshmen had turned out in full force, partly to do honor to Nance and partly because President Margaret Wakefield had been talking up the lecture beforehand. Miss Walker and others of the faculty were there, and in a far gallery seat Molly caught a glimpse of Professor Green, whose glance seemed to be turned unseeingly in her direction.

If Judy and Molly had had any fears as to how the absent-minded member of clubs was going to conduct herself on the platform, all doubts were soon dispelled. After the introduction made by the President, the lecturer’s nervous manner entirely disappeared. She approached the front of the platform with a composure marvelous to see, and in a cultivated, trained voice—not her everyday voice, by any means—she delivered an address of fervid and passionate eloquence; a plea for woman’s rights and universal suffrage so convincing that the most obstinate “anti” would have been won over. After the lecture there was an impromptu reception on the platform; then tea at Miss Bowles’ room and at last home to dress for the supper parties.

Judy and Molly had hastened ahead, leaving Nance to tear her mother from her circle of admirers with the plea that she would be too late. At twenty minutes before seven they hurried in, Mrs. Oldham looking so frail and exhausted that it hardly seemed possible she could keep up. While her poor daughter dashed into her own clothes, her mother sat limp and inert during the process of having her hair beautifully arranged with lightning speed by the deft and handy Judy, while Molly gave the weary woman aromatic spirits of ammonia in a glass of water and presently hooked her into a dinner dress which was really very handsome, of black lace over gray satin.

“Thank you, my dears,” she said amiably, giving an absent-minded glance at herself in the glass. “You are very kind, I am sure. I am such a busy woman I have little time to spare for beautifying; but I must say Miss Kean has improved my appearance by that high arrangement of hair.”

They were surprised that she remembered Judy’s name until they learned from Nance later that such was her training in meeting strangers, she never forgot a name or face.

“Now, where am I going?” continued the famous clubwoman. “You will drop me there, you say? You are going somewhere, Nance?”

“Yes, mother,” answered Nance patiently. It was the third time she had told her mother that fact.

At last they got her be-nubiaed and be-caped, and at exactly two minutes past seven o’clock deposited her at the President’s front door.

Then, with feelings of indescribable relief, they ran gayly across the campus, chattering and laughing like magpies.

Ten minutes later they were seated at Mrs. McLean’s large round supper table.

Professor Green, seated just opposite Nance, gave her happy, glowing face a long questioning look, then turning to Molly next to him, he said:

“She is enjoying it, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” whispered Molly; “thanks to you, good fairy.”

“But the wish must come before the fairy acts, so that, after all, one is far more important than the other,” he replied.

“Wasn’t the lecture wonderful?” asked Molly.

“Very remarkable,” he answered. “Women like that should take to the platform and leave families to other women to rear.”

“They certainly can’t do both,” said Molly, remembering poor Nance’s outburst the afternoon before.

“And if you have the vote,” went on the Professor in a louder voice, and with a kind of mock solemnity, “what will you do with it?”

“They’ll pitch all the men out of office, Professor,” called Dr. McLean, who had overheard this question; “and they’ll do all the work, too, and we men will begin to enjoy life a little. We’ve been slaves long enough. I’m for the emancipation of men,” he cried, “and Woman’s Suffrage is the only way to bring it about.”

They all laughed at this original view of the question, and Mrs. McLean, a charming woman with a beautiful Scotch accent, impossible to imitate, observed:

“My dear, the women are just as great slaves as the men, and they work much harder, if only you knew it. But you don’t because we are careful to conceal it. There are vera few women who do not wear their company manners in the presence of a man, take my word for it.”

“Is that the reason you are always so charming, Mrs. McLean?” put in Professor Green. “But I suspect you have only company manners.”

“Not at all, Professor; young Andy will tell you that I can be rude enough at times.”

Andy McLean, a tall, raw-boned youth with sandy hair and a thin, intelligent face, was too deeply engaged in conversation at that moment with Nance, to hear his mother’s speech.

“Let him alone, he’s busy,” remarked his father with a humorous smile.

“There’s an old song we sing at home,” went on Mrs. McLean, “‘there’s nae luck in tha’ hoose when the gude man’s awa’,’ but it should be the gude wife, for if ever a house goes to sixes and sevens it is my own house when I leave the two Andys and take ship for Scotland for a bit of a visit. There’s nae luck in the hoose for certain, and glad they are to get me back again, if ’tis only for their own personal comfort.”

“Hoity, toity, mother,” exclaimed the doctor; “we’re joost as glad to have you for your ainsel’, my dear.”

“Now, is it so, then?” laughed the gude wife. “Well, that’s satisfying assurance, truly.”

They found the doctor and his wife very amusing, and Molly liked Lawrence Upton, too, who was seated on her other side. He was a typical college youth, tall and stalwart, his brown hair brushed back in a pompadour, his clear, ruddy complexion glowing with vigor. In fact, he was one of the leading athletes at Exmoor, and had won a championship at high jumping and running.

“I hope we’ll have some dancing after dinner, Miss Brown,” he said. “I hear Southern girls fairly float, and I’d like to have a chance to find it out.”

“I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed with me, then,” answered Molly. “I’ve been leading at most of the college dances this fall, and it’s ruination to good dancing, you know. A leader is always pulling against the bit like a badly trained horse.”

“You look to me like a thoroughbred, Miss Brown,” said the gallant youth. “I’m not afraid of your pulling against the bit.”

There was some dancing after dinner in the McLean’s long, old-fashioned drawing-room, while Mrs. McLean herself played long old-fashioned waltzes on the piano, funny hop polkas and schottisches of antique origin. They enjoyed it immensely, however, fitting barn dances to the schottisches and mazurkas and two steps to the polkas. Twice Professor Green engaged Molly in a waltz. She had anticipated that his dancing would be as old-fashioned as the music, but to her surprise, she found him thoroughly up to date. In fact, she was obliged to admit that the Professor in English Literature danced better than any of the younger men at Mrs. McLean’s that night.

It was really the most delightful evening Molly had spent since she had been at Wellington. To Nance, it was the most delightful evening of her entire life and Judy, who always enjoyed the last time best of all, told Mrs. McLean when they left that she had never had a better time in her life.

After the dance, they sat around the big open fire, roasting chestnuts, while Dr. McLean sang a funny song called “Wee Wullie,” and Judy followed with an absurd “piece” on the piano called “Birdie’s Dead,” in schottische time, which sent them into shrieks of laughter and amused Dr. McLean so that he laid his head on his wife’s shoulder and wept with joy.

Sitting in the inglenook by the fireplace, Professor Green said to Molly:

“I have been waiting to say something to you, Miss Brown, and I will ask you to regard it as confidential.”

She looked up thinking perhaps it was the comic opera he was going to talk about, but she was vastly mistaken.

“When, as Botticelli’s Flora, you came to that night with the words, ‘I saw her——’ you did not guess, did you, that I, too, had seen her?”

They looked at each other and a flash of understanding passed between them. They now shared two secrets.

“I always wanted to tell you,” he continued in a low voice, “how much I admired your generous silence. You are a very remarkable young woman.”

With that the party broke up. Later, stretching her long slenderness in the three-quarter bed beside Judy, Molly smiled to herself, and decided that some older men were almost as nice as some young ones.