Because of the happy ending of the Ramble the seniors made no secret of the theft of the lunch hampers. If they had been obliged to go hungry, they would probably have kept the entire story to themselves. Such is human nature. When the story reached Miss Walker's ears, as most things about Wellington did sooner or later, she sent for Margaret Wakefield and got the history of the case from her in an exceedingly dramatic and well connected form.

"And we had gone to no end of trouble, Miss Walker, and a good deal of expense," Margaret finished. "Lots of us had had cakes and pickles and things sent on from home."

Miss Walker smiled. She could have named the contents of those hampers without any outside assistance.

"What none of us understands is where they took the hampers afterward. They couldn't have brought them back to college without being found out."

"No," answered the Principal, "that would have been impossible, of course, and yet the hampers have managed to find their way back." Shifting her chair from the table desk, she pointed underneath. "So, you see," she continued, "that the sandwiches and pickles and stuffed eggs and fudge may have found their way into college after all. Major Fern discovered the hampers. They had been tossed into a ditch near his place." Miss Walker sighed and frowned. "If the Exmoor boys were given to this kind of thing, I might have suspected some of them. But the standards at Exmoor are above such things as this," she indicated the hampers with a gesture of mingled disgust and pain. "If only—only I could bring my Wellington to that point. But every year there is something."

Margaret felt sorry for the Principal who had striven so hard for the honor of Wellington in the face of so many discouragements.

"It was a thoroughly silly and undignified act," she remarked later to the Queen's crowd, telling them of the interview, "to break up a time-honored custom like the Senior Ramble by stealing all the food; and I'm sorry for the girl who did it if she ever gets caught."

An effort had been made to find out if there had been any sophomore spreads the night of the Ramble with the stolen banquet, but these young women were either very wily or very innocent, for nothing was found against them.

In the meantime, things went on happily enough at Wellington and there were no more escapades to wrinkle the President's brow or enrage the girls who happened to be the victims. Molly's life was so filled with work and interests that she had little leisure for reflection, and about this time there came to her an unsolicited and entirely unexpected honor. She was elected sub-editor of the Wellington Commune, the fortnightly review of college news and college writings. Edith Williams, beyond a doubt the most literary girl in college, was editor-in-chief, Caroline Brinton was business manager, and there was besides a staff of six girls from other classes who gathered news and ran their various departments.

"I can't imagine why they chose me," Molly exclaimed one afternoon to Edith, when the two girls were closeted in the Commune office.

"For your literary discrimination," answered Edith.

"But I think my themes are dreadfully crude and forced. I can't help feeling self-conscious when I write."

"That's because you try too hard," answered Edith, who always spoke the brutal truth regarding the literary efforts of her friends. "Let your thoughts flow easily, lightly," she added, making a flowing gesture with her pencil to illustrate the gentle trickling of ideas from an overcharged brain.

Molly laughed.

"You remind me of Professor Green. 'Be simple,' was his advice—as if an amateur can be simple."

Edith, in the act of writing an editorial, smiled enigmatically.

"It's about as hard as getting a cheap dressmaker to make simple clothes," she said. "Amateurs always want to put in ruffles and puffles."

The two girls were seated at the editorial desk. There was a pile of manuscript in front of Molly: themes recommended by Miss Pomeroy for publication and contributed book reviews. Presently only the ticking of the clock on the book shelves broke the stillness. Both girls had plunged into work with a will. Edith's soft pencil was already flying over the sheets.

"Flowing easily and lightly," Molly thought, smiling as she turned a page.

For more than half an hour they worked in silence. At last Molly, having selected from the reviews the ones she considered best for publication, leaned her chin on her hand and closed her eyes. How peaceful it was in this little office, and how nice to be with Edith who went at her work—this kind of work—with force and swiftness.

Rap, rap, rap, came the sound of knuckles on the door, while some one shook the knob and the voice of Judy called:

"Let me in, let me in, girls, I've got something to show you that will make your blood boil."

"Run away, we're awfully busy," answered Edith, who kept the door to the private office locked.

"I tell you it will make your blood boil with rage and fury," went on the extravagant Judy. "As editors of the Commune, everybody calls on you to resent an insult to college. Please let me in," she pleaded.

Molly opened the door and her impetuous friend rushed in, waving a newspaper.

"Be calm, child. Don't take on so. Sit down and tell us easily and lightly and flowingly what's the matter," she said.

"Look at this base, libelous article," Judy ejaculated, spreading the paper on the table.

With an expression of amused toleration as of one who must bear the whims of a spoiled child, Edith drew the paper in front of her while Molly and Judy seated themselves on the arms of her chair and read over her shoulders.

The first things that caught their eyes were the pictures: drawings of wildly disheveled beings in gymnasium suits playing basket ball and hockey. One picture, also, represented a blousy looking young person in a sweater, carrying a bundle of linen under one arm and a bottle of milk under the other. In still another this same blousy model was yelling "Hello" to her twin sister across the page. They saw her again in the drug store dissipating in chocolate sundaes; and once more, chewing gum; hobnobbing with the grocery boy, too, or perhaps it was the baggage man or the postman. The article occupied a full page under flaring headlines:

"It's ironic, untrue and insulting," observed Edith, in a choking voice as her eyes traveled down the columns.

"She seems especially hard on poor girls who have to get their own meals," broke in Molly. "Is there anything unfeminine in getting a bottle of milk from the corner grocery, I wonder? Or saying good-morning to the postman or Mr. Murphy? What would Miss Slammer think of us if she knew how often we had tea with Mrs. Murphy and Mr. Murphy, too?"

"She recommends colleges for women to pattern themselves after a Fifth Avenue school that teaches manners before it teaches classics," burst out Judy. "I wonder if she went to that school?"

"She is evidently opposed to higher education for women," remarked Edith. "The style of her writing shows that as much as her sentiments do."

"I know one thing," cried Judy, "this settles it. I'm going to join the Woman's Suffrage Society to-day. If this is the way an anti thinks, I'm for the other side."

Edith and Molly laughed.

"It's an excellent reason for changing your political views, Judy," said Molly.

And now the office of the Commune was besieged by numbers of students from the three upper classes. There were even one or two indignant freshmen present. Those who had received the article by the first mail had handed it to those who had not. Many of the girls had already written letters in reply and sent them to be published in New York papers. Would the editors of the Commune do anything about the base, libelous article? Were these stinging falsehoods about college girls to be allowed to be scattered over the country without a single protest?

"You may add my name to the Suffrage Club, Miss Wakefield," called a junior.

"And mine."

"And mine."

So Margaret's list of converts swelled amazingly that afternoon.

Edith was enjoying herself immensely.

"What funny creatures girls are," she said to Molly, still sitting on the arm of the editorial chair.

The question was: how was the article to be answered? No doubt college girls everywhere were thinking the same thing; therefore, the Wellington girls would not like to be backward in coming forward.

"I suppose all the other colleges will be answering the article in about the same way," said Margaret. "I wish we could think of something original and different. Something more personal than a letter to a newspaper."

"She speaks on anti-suffrage, doesn't she?" asked Edith.

"Oh, yes," cried Margaret. "She is evidently one of those women who believes she can stem the tide of human progress by taking a stand against higher education and universal suffrage. Do you think women like that are ever silent? They are always standing on the street corners trying to lift their little puny voices above the multitude—but who hears them?"

There was a burst of laughter at Margaret's eloquence.

"Why not ask her to speak here?" suggested Edith.

"What good would that do?"

"Besides, she wouldn't come."

"Oh, yes she would. Wait until all this blows over and then send her the invitation. People who write like that always want to talk."

"But how will we get any personal satisfaction out of it?" Margaret asked.

"Well, by showing her what perfect ladies we are, in the first place. We can be very attentive and still 'freeze' her. We can entertain her without talking to her any more than is necessary, and we can listen to her speech and make no comments."

After consideration of the suggestion, most of the girls began to see a good many possibilities in this courteous revenge. They were taken with the notion of inviting Miss Slammer into the enemy's camp and treating her as a guest too honored to be familiar with. It was agreed that the invitation should be dispatched in about two weeks, so that Miss Slammer would feel no suspicions.

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