I have so many things to tell you that I hardly know where to begin. "At the beginning," you will say. Very well. There was a gay crowd of laughing, excited girls at the station when I arrived. Such kissing and little shrieks and hugs! I felt quite left out in the cold. We all piled into the college bus together. It was a drive of two miles to the college buildings, and the scenery along the way was perfectly lovely. After we had arrived I was standing quite forsaken in the great main hall watching people who seemed entirely at home pass back and forth or gather in little knots, when a girl came up to me and said: "You are a new girl, are you not? If you will tell me your name I will show you to your room." Have since found out that the sophomores have charge of looking after the freshmen, and this girl was a sophomore. When she learned my name she went to the office to consult the directory, and came back and took me to room 89, on the third floor. There was a large bunch of daisies in a vase on the table. When I admired it, she said, "That's the way we sophomores have of hazing the freshmen." We had a long conversation, and she told me a great many things about the college and what to expect, and finally she concluded, "Now, don't forget, Miss Clarke, that I found you, and you sort of belong to me. If, at any time, you desire any wise advice, or if you get into any scrape and want to get out cleverly, why, call upon me. My name is Alma Robertson, address No. 56, east corridor, 2d floor. You know you can't do much till you've seen Prexy, so you'd better get your number as soon as you can."

I discovered before long what she meant. There were about ten girls waiting in the outer office of the President. Some one handed me a square of paper marked 53. "No. 17 is closeted now," a girl told me, "and I am No. 18." So I went back to my room to wait—no longer my room, however, but our room, for there I found my room mate. She is perfectly lovely. Her name is Elizabeth Gyllane. She is a sophomore, and the friend from her own class whom she expected to room with her had not returned to college. I know Elizabeth was very much disappointed, but she made me feel at once that she was pleased with the arrangement made for her, and she was as sweet as could be to me. She is one of the most tactful and unselfish persons I ever met. She is from Virginia, and speaks with a southern accent. She has no mother. Do you think that is why she likes so much to hear about my own? She says she has a very clear impression of you already, and almost loves you. I never got acquainted with any one so quickly before. She understands exactly what you mean and how you feel, and you don't have to explain things.

Every girl has to take an hour's exercise a day. You can walk or you are allowed to row in the wide flat-bottomed boats, if you can prove to the authorities that one is not strong enough to capsize them.

We have not had regular recitations yet, but our lessons are all assigned for to-morrow. I had no idea I should dread it as I do. All the girls I have met have such a superior, learned air—not at all like the high-school girls. I have a perfect horror of being considered stupid.

Elizabeth and I are going for a row at 3 o'clock this afternoon. She has a great many friends who are always coming to see her and making plans that include her, but she told me this morning that she wanted me to go out with her this afternoon—"just we two alone," she said, "for a nice long time together."

I don't know what I should do without her. Last evening I felt so lonely and homesick. I was thinking of you and papa and the baby, and how long it would be before I should see my beloved ones again. Elizabeth found me in our bedroom on the bed, and she was just splendid. She didn't try to jolly me up, but instead she was very serious, and talked with me about my home. She put her arm about me and said, "Alice, your kind of homesickness is a blessed thing. One may be homesick because one has no home to be homesick for." I wondered if she meant herself, but I didn't say anything, for fear of making her feel badly. But I thought how very selfish I was to be accepting her sympathy when perhaps she needed sympathy more than I did.

Please give my dearest love to papa, and ask baby not to forget "Lala."

I am sure I am going to be very happy here, dear mother, although the homesick feeling takes possession of me every once in a while. It seems already as if I had not seen you for half a year.

You must have been very tired after I left home, you had worked so hard helping me get ready. I find I have everything I need, and my clothes look beautifully. I can never thank you enough for all you have done for me, and are doing for me. I know you will say that the best thanks I can offer is to make the most of my opportunities, and I shall try not to disappoint you.

Your affectionate daughter,
Mabel.