Marjorie intensely disliked the thought. Despite Mignon’s love of intrigue, she made a good treasurer. The club accounts were perfectly kept by her. She had served faithfully at the Campfire. Her father had contributed generously to the club and to the Campfire. Mignon’s forced resignation from the Lookouts would hurt him. Then, too, Lucy Warner had been warned against Mignon. Marjorie felt that Lucy herself was partially at fault. She had shown herself over-credulous and ungrateful. Mentally weighing the pros and cons of the affair, the baffled peace-seeker grew momentarily more perplexed. She had prayed earnestly on the day before to be shown the right. Now she yearned for a sign that would plainly point out to her her duty.
“Did you see her?” was Jerry’s first low-voiced question when at noon the two girls met in the senior locker room.
“Yes; but I can’t tell you about it now,” returned Marjorie soberly. “After school is over to-day I wish you and Connie to come to my house. We will talk it over then. I don’t care to have anyone else know about it besides Connie.”
“All right. That will suit me.” Jerry appeared satisfied with Marjorie’s decision. On the way home she steered prudently clear of all mention of either Mignon or Lucy, although Muriel Harding brought up the subject of the latter’s absence from the Campfire on Saturday evening. As neither she, Irma, Susan or Harriet were able to offer any information, while Marjorie and Jerry refused to commit themselves, the topic soon died a natural death.
“Take a little run up to your house, Lieutenant,” greeted Mrs. Dean, as Marjorie entered the living room. “It will pay you to do so.”
“‘To obey is a soldier’s first duty,’” quoted Marjorie merrily, coming to attention and saluting. She was off like a flash, her swift feet making short work of the ascent to her house. “Oh!” she breathed as she caught sight of a long florist’s box on her center table. Three times she repeated the exclamation as she glimpsed its contents. Lifting a sheaf of long-stemmed, half-opened American Beauty roses from the box, she buried her face in their spicy fragrance. As she raised them a square white envelope dropped to the floor bearing the words: “To Miss Marjorie Dean.”
Not recognizing the heavy, masculine script, she eagerly explored the envelope to ascertain who the giver might be. A faint cry of consternation escaped her as she hastily glanced at the signature before reading the note. Bundling the roses on the table, she sought the window seat and read:
“Dear Miss Marjorie:
“Will you allow me to try in some measure to express my appreciation for your kindness to my daughter, Mignon? You have more than fulfilled the request I made of you on a certain afternoon of last Spring. It is of a truth a great gratification to me to see my Mignon thus surrounded by such estimable young women as yourself and your friends. It is most pleasurable to me that you have honored her with an office in your club. I rejoice also to observe the important part she took in the Campfire. I feel that you will never regret the consideration you have so graciously shown her. If at any time you desire my services, you have but to command me. With extreme gratitude and the good wishes for your constant success,
“Most sincerely yours,