PEGGY RAYMOND'S WAY
Or
BLOSSOM TIME AT FRIENDLY TERRACE

The Friendly Terrace Series
BY
HARRIET LUMMIS SMITH

THE PAGE COMPANY
53 Beacon Street, Boston, Mass.

PEGGY RAYMOND

	The Friendly Terrace Series PEGGY RAYMOND'S WAY Or, Blossom Time at Friendly Terrace
	BY HARRIET LUMMIS SMITH Author of "The Girls of Friendly Terrace," "Peggy Raymond's Vacation," "Peggy Raymond's School Days," "The Friendly Terrace Quartette," etc.
	ILLUSTRATED BY FRANK T. MERRILL
	BOSTON THE PAGE COMPANY MDCCCCXXII

Copyright, 1922,
By the Page Company
——
All rights reserved
Made in U. S. A.
First Impression, August, 1922
PRINTED BY C. H. SIMONDS COMPANY
BOSTON, MASS., U. S. A.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Peggy Raymond's Way

CHAPTER I
WHAT'S IN A NAME?

It was the first day of the spring vacation, and Amy Lassell had spent it sewing. To be frank, it had not measured up to her idea of a holiday. Self-indulgence was Amy's besetting weakness. Her dearest friend, Peggy Raymond, was never happy unless she was busy at something, but Amy loved the luxury of idleness.

Yet although indolence appealed so strongly to Amy's temperament, to do her justice she was generally able to turn a deaf ear to its call. The first summer after America's entry into the war she had enlisted in the Land Army along with Peggy and Priscilla, and then in the fall had taken up her work at the local Red Cross headquarters, serving in an unpaid position as conscientiously as if she had received a salary and was depending on it for her bread and butter.

After a strenuous year with the Red Cross, Amy had entered college with Ruth Wylie. Neither girl had expected to enter till after the close of the war, and Amy was continually harping upon the respect which the young and unsophisticated Freshmen were bound to feel for classmates of such advanced years. But Nelson Hallowell's discharge from the service had altered the aspect of affairs. Ruth had pledged herself to keep Nelson's position for him till he should return, and Amy had promised to wait for Ruth. The wound which had kept Nelson in the hospital less than a month had nevertheless incapacitated him from military service. Heavy-hearted, he had returned to his job at the book store, while Ruth and Amy had immediately made their plans for entering college just two years behind Peggy and Priscilla.

After her months of hard study, the first day of the spring vacation found Amy at the sewing machine, which in itself was sufficient proof that, whatever her natural bias in the direction of indolence, her will was more than a match for that tendency. As a matter of fact she was the only one of the Friendly Terrace quartette to spend the day in unremitting industry. Peggy and Ruth had gone off with Graham for the day. Priscilla was entertaining an out-of-town guest. But Amy, resolution manifest in every line of her plump little figure, was sewing for dear life.

Though the armistice had been signed months before, there still remained foes to fight, as the girls had promptly discovered. The reaction from economy and hard work had come in the shape of an orgy of extravagance and frivolity. The high war prices were continually going higher, as dealers realized that people would get what they wanted regardless of price. The four Friendly Terrace girls, after an afternoon of shopping which had ended in the purchase of a box of hair-pins and two spools of thread, had returned home to hold a council of war.

"The only way to bring prices down is to stop buying things," declared Peggy, with all the authority of a college Junior. "I don't know as I have anything to make over, but if I have, nothing new for me this spring."

Amy sighed. "I'd just been luxuriating in the thought of a lot of new dresses," she said mournfully. "Don't you know how after you've been dieting, all at once you're hungry for creamed chicken and pineapple fritters, and chocolate with whipped cream, and strawberry sundaes, all rolled into one. And that's just the way I feel about clothes. But I suppose it will end in my making over my blue taffeta."

"I've two or three summer dresses that will do very well if I make the skirts scanty," said Ruth. "They're too full for this season."

They talked on seriously, planning their little economies as if they expected unaided to bring down the high cost of living. They were not the sort of girls who follow the crowd unthinkingly, nor had any of them contracted the fatal habit of asking, "What can one do?" The program they outlined would have resulted in a general lowering of prices in a month's time if every one had agreed to it. And it did not occur to them that public indifference excused them from doing their little part toward combating a serious evil.

That was how it happened that Amy Lassell had spent the spring day sewing. The blue taffeta had been ripped and pressed in anticipation of the vacation leisure, and as soon as the breakfast dishes were out of the way Amy had commandeered the dining-room table as a cutting table. With the help of a paper pattern she had remodeled the taffeta according to the latest dictates of fashion. Caution suggested that it would be advisable to wait for assistance in the fitting, but having basted the breadths together and surveyed her reflection in the mirror, Amy had been so favorably impressed that she had gone to work energetically stitching up seams.

Like many people whose natural tendency is in the direction of indolence, Amy was capable of relentless industry, almost as though she were afraid that if once she halted she might not get her courage to the point of starting again. She swallowed a hasty luncheon and rushed back to her sewing. Her eyes grew tired, her back ached. She became nervous and hot and impatient, so that breaking a thread or dropping a thimble seemed almost a calamity. And yet she did not stop.

It was after five when she laid her work reluctantly aside. Amy's responsibilities for the day were not limited to the blue taffeta. As in many another household, the domestic service problem had become acute in the Lassell establishment during the last few years. Incapable servants demanding preposterous wages, had been replaced by others equally incompetent, and there had been interims when it had been difficult to secure so much as a laundress. Amy and her mother had learned a good many short cuts to achievement, and had accepted the frequent necessity of doing their own work with a philosophy of which they would have been incapable in pre-war times. On this first day of vacation Amy was without a servant, and without a mother, as well; for Mrs. Lassell had left home that morning not to return till nearly bed-time.

At five o'clock the realization that she must prepare her father's supper forced itself on Amy's attention. It was not a formidable responsibility, for at breakfast that morning Mr. Lassell had informed her that he was to take a customer out to lunch and would be satisfied with very little for the evening meal. Amy meant to take him at his word. There was cold meat, quite enough for two, she thought; and some potatoes to fry, and her father did not care much for dessert. Accordingly, Amy had waited till five o'clock before she laid down her sewing, and then she realized for the first time how very tired she was. A glimpse of herself in the mirror emphasized her certainty that it was high time to stop. Amy's fair hair was disheveled, her plump cheeks brilliantly pink. There were dark lines under her eyes, eloquent of weariness. Amy regarded herself with extreme disfavor.

"Looks as if I'd taken up rouge in my old age. And I positively must do my hair over. I can't ask even poor patient daddy to look at such a frowsy head all through supper. O, well, he won't mind, if I am a little late."

Encouraging herself with this reflection, Amy bathed her burning cheeks, combed her hair hastily, and slipped into a little gingham gown which, if somewhat faded and passée, had at least the merit of being fresh and clean. It buttoned in the back, and by virtue of much twisting and stretching Amy finally succeeded in securing the middle button which for a time had defied her efforts. And just as she did so, the door-bell rang.

"'COME RIGHT IN,' SAID AMY WITH A MISLEADING AIR OF CORDIALITY"

Amy went placidly downstairs. She had no apprehensions about the door-bell. She took it for granted that it was somebody to collect for the newspaper, or an old-clothes man, or else a friend so intimate that she could ask her into the kitchen while she made her supper preparations. As she reached the door she realized her mistake. Of the two young people waiting admission she had met the sister several times. The brother she knew merely by sight, for the family had moved into the neighborhood only recently.

For a moment Amy's mood was one of unqualified dismay. She wanted to turn and run. With lightning-like rapidity she compared her faded gingham with the stylish frock setting off the girlish, graceful figure of Hildegarde Carey. And Hildegarde's brother, Robert, if looking a trifle bored, was immaculately attired. Amy recollected that in her absorption with the blue taffeta she had neglected to dust the living room that morning.

Amy opened the door with a smile that poorly concealed her anguish of spirit. Her flickering hope that Hildegarde had made a mistake in the number was dissipated by the composure of Hildegarde's greeting. The two young people entered, as Amy realized, without waiting to be asked, and in the hall Hildegarde performed the ceremony of introduction.

"Come right in," said Amy with a misleading air of cordiality. She wondered if she had better apologize for the undusted living room, but decided against it. Perhaps they would overlook it, though Robert Carey impressed her as one who would notice the least little thing out of the way. Amy decided that the young fellow's handsome face was almost spoiled by its discontented expression.

Another shock came when she said to Hildegarde, "Let me take your coat." She expected Hildegarde to reply that the coat was light and that she did not mind it for the few minutes she had to stay; but on the contrary she not only removed her coat, but slipped off her gloves, unpinned her hat, and added it to the collection Amy carried into the hall with a growing sense of stupefaction. "Any one would think," she told herself, "that she was an old friend come to spend the day."

Perhaps Amy's perplexity partly explained the fact that the next half hour dragged. Amy was not her usual entertaining self. She thought of the dust showing gray against the shining mahogany of the piano. She thought of her faded gingham. She heard herself talking stupidly, unnaturally, and chiefly about the weather. Robert Carey looked more bored than ever.

At half past six her father came in. He glanced at the group in the living room as he entered, and Amy hastily summoned him. Her guests must realize that when the man of the house came home it was time to leave. Amy introduced her father, pulled out an arm chair invitingly, and Mr. Lassell seated himself. It was from him that his daughter had inherited her sense of humor, and on this occasion he made himself much more entertaining than Amy had done. The conversation became almost animated.

The clock in the hall struck seven, tolling out the notes sonorously. Every one seemed to be listening to it, and Amy flushed. It was almost as if the clock had said, "Time to go home! Time to go home!" And then to her horror her father turned toward her inquiringly. "Hadn't you better put on the supper, my dear?" he asked. "Your friends will be getting hungry."

For an agonized half minute Amy vainly tried to think of something she could say to soften the blow. She was magnanimous enough to acquit her father of all blame. Seeing them sitting there at that hour, especially as Hildegarde had taken off her hat, he had innocently assumed that they had been invited to dinner. And of course his blunder was equivalent to saying that they had stayed longer than was proper or desirable.

Then Amy's head whirled again. Her guests did not spring to their feet as she had expected them to do, protesting that they had not dreamed it was so late. Instead they sat quite still, only murmuring a polite disclaimer of being hungry. With the force of a blow the realization came over Amy that they had accepted her father's tacit invitation. They were going to stay to supper.

Amy rose, murmuring something unintelligible, and got out of the room quickly. O, if Peggy were only home, Peggy who had such a faculty for evolving something savory and appetizing from the least promising materials. Amy's cooking until recently had been confined to chafing-dish delicacies and candy. It was too late, she realized, to add to her scanty stores. She must feed four people with what had seemed barely enough for two, and must do it quickly.

Mechanically she lighted the oven of the gas stove. She remembered there was a can of tomato soup in the house, and the cold meat, sliced very thin, might possibly pass muster. She herself would refuse meat. Luckily there was a generous plateful of potatoes. Creamed and with a little cheese grated over them, they would be appetizing—and filling. She could make baking powder biscuit,—Amy excelled in baking powder biscuit—and there was honey to eat with them. For dessert she would fall back on preserved peaches and some left-over fruit cake. It was a queer, hit-or-miss meal, not a company repast in any sense of the word, but the best she could do under the circumstances.

It was while the biscuits were browning in the oven, and Amy was hastily setting the table for four, that her native common-sense re-asserted itself. "After all," her thoughts ran, "if people take pot luck, they can't expect to find things just as they would be if they were especially invited. They've seemed real friendly and if they like me well enough to stay to a pick-up supper, the first time they've ever set foot in my home, I ought to meet them half way. I can't give them much to eat, but I don't need to be quite as stupid as I've been for the last hour."

And so it came about that when the guests were summoned to the dining room, they encountered a very different hostess from the one who had entertained them previously, a hostess who twinkled and sparkled and kept them laughing. It seemed to Amy that, when she had removed the soup plates and brought in the sliced meat and creamed potatoes, she had seen an expression of astonishment flicker across Hildegarde's face, but she resolutely put the thought aside and continued to make herself agreeable. The baking-powder biscuits had risen nobly to the occasion. Amy thought them the best she had ever made. And she saw with relief that the bored expression had disappeared from Robert Carey's face, and that he really seemed to be enjoying himself.

Then suddenly into the midst of all this gaiety, Hildegarde dropped a bomb in the shape of a question. "What happened to detain Isabel?"

"Isabel?"

"Yes, Isabel Vincent, you know."

"I'm afraid," Amy hesitated, "that I don't know any one of that name."

Apparently the meal had come to a full stop. "Why," Hildegarde cried, "the Isabel Vincent who attended the Pelham school when I was there."

She was so insistent that Amy unconsciously became apologetic. "I'm sorry but I can't say I remember such a girl. Did she ever say she had met me?"

"Why," Hildegarde almost screamed, "didn't you ask us here to-night to meet her?"

"To meet Isabel Vincent! Why, I never heard of her."

"There's some mistake," exclaimed Robert. He had just helped himself to a fifth baking-powder biscuit, but he laid it down unbuttered. "You've made some mistake," he informed his sister.

Hildegarde ignored him and addressed herself to Amy. "Didn't you telephone me this morning?"

"I—why, to tell the truth, no I didn't."

"Then it was a disgusting practical joke. Some one called me up about eleven o'clock and said she was Amy Lassell, and that Isabel Vincent was to stop here twenty-four hours on her way to New York from her home in Chicago. And then she invited Bob and me to dinner to meet Isabel. There wasn't anything in her manner to give me an idea it was a hoax."

But Amy had found the clew. "O, did Isabel come from Chicago?" she cried. "Then I know. It was Avery Zall who telephoned you."

"But I don't know her."

"She went away to boarding school—yes, it was the Pelham school, I'm sure. And I know she has a friend from Chicago visiting her. Probably the Vincent girl spoke of knowing you, and Avery called you up. O, dear!" groaned Amy with a sudden change of countenance.

"What's the matter?" demanded Bob Carey, still ignoring his biscuit.

"I've cheated you out of a regular feast. The Zalls have a wonderful cook. You'd have had broiled chicken and fresh mushrooms and I don't know what beside, and I've given you cold meat and—"

"You've given us the best biscuits I ever ate," said Bob, and buttered his fifth, but his sister had turned pale.

"I don't believe any one ever did such a dreadful thing before. Here we descended on you without warning and simply forced you to invite us to stay—"

"Happy escape, I think," said Bob. "If there's anything I hate, it's these social stunts Hildegarde's crazy about."

"The only dreadful part," said Amy, reassuring the distressed Hildegarde, "is that you've exchanged a perfectly gorgeous dinner for a pick-up supper."

"But what must Miss—Miss Zall think of me?"

"She must know there's some mistake. Probably they're not waiting dinner any longer, for it's after eight o'clock."

"O," groaned Hildegarde, "I never was so mortified. What am I going to do?"

"It seems to me you'd better finish your supper, such as it is," suggested Amy. "And then you can call up Avery Zall and explain your mistake. She'll see that the names sound alike over the phone. And after that there'll be plenty of time to see your friends."

"Seems to me," suggested Bob, "that as long as we've started the evening here, we might as well put it through."

His eyes met Amy's with a twinkle that was like a spark to tinder. Amy struggled for a moment, then gave way to peals of laughter.

"O," she gasped, when at length she could find her voice, "What must you have thought of me, inviting you to dinner and then coming down in this old, faded gingham."

"And what must you have thought of me," Hildegarde cried, "coming at such an hour and calmly taking off my hat."

"The dust was thick over everything," giggled Amy. "I've been sewing every minute all day long, and I warned father to expect a light meal."

"I should have known I had made a mistake," Hildegarde lamented, "when you never said a word about Isabel. I don't know how I could have been so ridiculously stupid."

But for all her dismay, she laughed. Indeed if laughter aids digestion, there was little danger that Amy's biscuits would disagree with any one, even Robert, who had dispatched such an extravagant number.

While Amy cleared the table and brought in the dessert, Hildegarde went to the phone and explained matters to a young woman whose preliminary stiffness melted as Hildegarde reviewed the situation. And then Hildegarde hurried back to inform her brother that they must go over as soon as he had finished. "She was as sweet as she could be, but she said they had waited dinner an hour."

"So it's up to you to 'gobble and git,'" quoted Amy, dishing out the preserves with a lavish hand.

"I'm not going to be hurried over that fruit cake," declared Bob. "It carries me back to the merry Christmas time."

"It ought to, for it's a Christmas cake, but it's been kept in a tin box with an apple and I hope it isn't dry. It was all I had in the cake line." Amy paused to laugh again. "I really must stop," she exclaimed, wiping her moist eyes. "They say that laughing at meal-time makes one fat, and I don't dare risk another pound."

"Can't have too much of a good thing," declared Bob Carey with a significant glance at the flushed face. Strictly speaking, Amy was perhaps the least pretty of the four Friendly Terrace girls; but good humor has a charm, and a face radiant with fun can hold its own against discontented beauty any day. There was such frank admiration in the look the young man bent upon her, that Amy's cheeks grew hot with an unwonted self-consciousness.

The brother and sister left with evident reluctance. "Now we've had dinner with you," said Hildegarde, "you must dine with us very soon."

"Oh, this doesn't deserve to be counted," Amy laughed. "I'll ask you again some day and show you what I can do if I really try."

"No, don't," pleaded Bob. "Have us again when you're going to have biscuit. It's so much jollier to be informal than to work the society racket." And then Hildegarde carried him off, protesting that, if they didn't hurry, Avery Zall would not believe a word of her excuse.

Amy found her father clearing the table. She put on her long apron and joined him, chattering excitedly as she worked.

"No full garbage can to-night, Daddy. Every dish is scraped clean. I suppose I ought to feel crushed over setting such a meal before people I hardly knew, but somehow I don't."

Her father smiling, responsive to her high spirits, shook his head.

"It isn't much to set good food before folks, Amy. Any waiter in a restaurant can do that. Give people the best of yourself and you don't need to worry about your bill of fare."

CHAPTER II
A TELEPHONE PARTY

However much the rest of the year may drag, the spring vacation always ignores the speed limit. What with dress-making and shopping, and going over one's bureau drawers and closets in anticipation of the spring cleaning, and trying to do the things one has been postponing till this week of leisure, and taking advantage of all the pleasures that start up like mushrooms, twenty-four hours in a day are all too few. When Priscilla dropped in on Peggy to suggest going out into the country for wild flowers, the Monday afternoon that closed the holiday season, Peggy hesitated.

"I'd love it. I don't feel that spring is really here until I have picked a few violets and spring beauties. But I was thinking of going to see Mary Donaldson."

"Why, is anything the matter?" Priscilla asked.

Peggy stared, "Matter! You know that since that attack of inflammatory rheumatism she hasn't walked—"

"But I meant anything new."

"O, there's nothing new, not as far as I know. I haven't been in to see Mary since—O, dear, I'm afraid it's been an age."

"I only meant," explained Priscilla reasonably, "that if Mary's no worse off than she has been for the last year and a half, there's no especial point in taking to-day to go to see her. You could go any afternoon."

"I could," owned Peggy with a significant inflection.

"And it's such a perfect day to go after wild flowers."

Peggy looked from the window. The blue sky seemed to smile an invitation. Priscilla's argument all at once appeared unanswerable.

"Yes, isn't it lovely!" Peggy drew a long breath. "Too lovely to stay indoors. I'll go to see Mary some stormy afternoon when she needs cheering up."

And now that her decision was made, the thought of Mary Donaldson passed completely from Peggy's mind. She had never been particularly intimate with this class-mate, and had it not been for Mary's illness it is unlikely that the two girls would have seen much of each other after high school days. But the winter of Peggy's Freshman year, an attack of rheumatism had left Mary seriously crippled. Though now she was able to be dressed and to hobble from her bed to a chair by the window, getting downstairs was too difficult a process to be considered, except on very especial occasions. With all the yearnings for life and joy that characterize the normal girl, Mary was condemned to vibrate between her bed and chair.

It was not strange that with all her sympathy Peggy had found it difficult to see much of her invalid friend. The demands made by the war upon the scanty leisure of a college student left her little time she could call her own. She had worked making surgical dressings under the Red Cross, and had given much time to collecting and mending worn garments for the destitute children of Belgium and France. She had subscribed for a bond in each of the Government loans, and to pay for these with her own earnings had required hard work and careful financing. On the whole, though Peggy was sorry not to have seen more of Mary Donaldson, her conscience acquitted her of neglect.

The season was advanced and the girls had no difficulty in filling their baskets with the early arrivals among the wild flowers, and as their baskets filled, they feasted their eyes on the myriad indeterminate shades of a spring landscape, and drank in the exhilarating odors of damp earth, warmed by the April sun. When Peggy's wrist-watch warned them it was time to start for home, they went reluctantly, with an unreasonable feeling that in returning to town they were leaving the spring behind them.

At their transfer point a sign in a drug store window caught Amy's eye. "Ice cream soda with fresh fruit," she read impressively. "I wondered what it was I wanted. I've lost a pound and a half since vacation began, so I dare to risk one."

"I haven't been buying sodas, because I needed the money for something else," said Peggy. "But this is the last day of vacation and I believe I'll celebrate."

They filed in and gave their orders. Peggy had just taken the first sip of a ravishing concoction, whose formula would have given a dyspeptic heart-failure, when at the opposite counter she spied a stout, middle-aged woman who was regarding her with savage intentness. Her features were familiar, in spite of a look of hostility Peggy was not accustomed to see on the faces that looked in her direction.

For some minutes Peggy was frankly puzzled. Not till she was finishing her soda did she remember where she had seen that heavy, lowering face before. But with the recollection, she slipped from her stool and crossed to the opposite side of the room.

"I've been trying to think where I've seen you before, but now I remember. You're the Miss Potts who takes care of Mary Donaldson, aren't you?"

Rather ungraciously Miss Potts admitted her identity. She was not a trained nurse, for in Mary's case skilled hands were no longer necessary. Miss Potts was big and strong and kind of heart, though at the moment her expression was far from suggesting the latter characteristic. A little puzzled by the woman's manner, Peggy continued, "I've been wanting to see Mary for ever so long. How is she?"

"Well, she ain't doing very well, and no wonder. Old folks get kind of used to the way things are in this world, and it doesn't surprise 'em none to be forgotten. But it's sort of hard on the young."

Peggy flushed hotly. She realized that Miss Potts' disagreeable manner was a deliberate expression of resentment. "I'm sorry that I haven't been able to see more of Mary this last year," she said with gentle dignity, "but I've been very busy, and it's such a long way over here."

"I s'pose it's a long way to your telephone, too."

"Telephone!" Peggy repeated. She looked at Miss Potts so blankly that Mary's caretaker had no alternative but to explain.

"Her pa had it put in for a surprise. It's right beside her bed, and the little thing it stands on moves 'round, so she can talk without any trouble. He thought it would be a comfort to her, for she could chat with all her friends, and sort of keep up with things."

"Why, yes," said Peggy, feeling uncomfortable. "I should think she'd get lots of fun out of it." She was remembering that Mary had called her up—it was weeks or months, or was it fully a year before—to tell her about the new telephone. There had been an eagerness in Mary's voice that she remembered vividly. Peggy had agreed that it was "splendid," without realizing just what this link with the outside world would mean to a girl shut out from so much.

Miss Potts indulged in an unmusical laugh. "Oh, yes," she said. "She gets lots of fun. Every now and then she gets a call. There's so many new girls on the telephone exchanges nowadays, that they're bound to give her number every little while. And then she tells 'em it's the wrong number and rings off."

Peggy's face was a study. "Do you mean that she—that no one—"

The aggressiveness suddenly disappeared from Miss Potts' manner. Her eyes filled with tears.

"It's the heart-breakingest thing I ever want to see," she cried. "She was so hopeful at first. As soon as that telephone was put in, she called up everybody she knew, to tell 'em about it. And then she'd lie there smiling, watching that phone, as if it was something out of a fairy book and was going to bring her all kinds of happiness."

Peggy's imagination was a vivid one. As Miss Potts spoke, she could almost see Mary's smiling, expectant face. A pang of sympathy stabbed her tender heart.

"The very first time that telephone rang it was somebody that wanted the butcher; and the second time, a girl, who was coming over to spend the afternoon with her, rang up to say her aunt was in town and she was going to the matinée instead. I don't think Mary ever felt the same about her phone after that start-out. When it rang, she looked kind of scared, as if she was afraid she was going to hear something disappointing."

"But surely," Peggy exclaimed, "she must have lots of calls from her friends. I—why, I know I haven't called very often, but that was because I was always hoping to get time to go over to see her." There was such genuine distress in her voice that Miss Potts was visibly melted.

"It's a busy world," she said, "for young folks and old folks, too, and I guess on the whole it's lucky it is so easy for us to forget. But all the same," she ended, with a shake of her head, "it's pretty hard on the ones who get forgotten."

The clerk brought out the prescription for which Miss Potts had been waiting, and Peggy rejoined her friends. For a moment she considered sending her flowers to Mary, but a fear that to Miss Potts this might seem an effort to evade a more exacting expression of sympathy led her to relinquish her purpose. Her crest-fallen manner revealed that something was wrong, and as they left the drug store her friends resentfully demanded an explanation.

"Peggy, what was that woman saying to you?" Priscilla was bristling like a mother hen who sees one of her brood attacked.

In a few words Peggy explained. Her three listeners exchanged conscience-stricken glances.

"It seems rather mean that you should be the one to be scolded," said Amy, "when you have gone to see Mary oftener than all the three of us together."

"That isn't saying much," Peggy stated gloomily. "I haven't been near her for months."

"But you haven't had time," cried Ruth, slipping her hand through her friend's arm.

"No, I think I really haven't," Peggy said frankly. "But I certainly have had time to go to the telephone." Then suddenly her face brightened. "I know what we'll do, girls; we'll give her a telephone party."

"A telephone party," Amy repeated. "What do you mean by that?" The car for which they were waiting came along before Peggy could answer, and she finished her explanation hanging to a strap, while her three companions, similarly supported and swaying violently with each jerk of the car, listened absorbedly.

"College opens to-morrow, and the first day is never so very busy, so we'll call Mary up every hour. My hour will be between nine and ten. Priscilla, you take the hour between ten and eleven; and Amy, you can have the next one. I think we'd better omit the hour between twelve and one, for she'll probably be eating luncheon then. Ruth, you may call between one and two."

"But you said every hour, Peggy. Don't you think it would be rather over-doing it to call twice in one day?"

"I'm going to get hold of some of the other girls who were in Mary's class in high school, Elinor Hewitt, and Anna Joyce, and Blanche Eastabrook—"

"She's in New York."

"Well, Marian O'Neil isn't. And I'll see Aimee Dubois at college and tell her about it. Mary's telephone is going to work overtime to make up for its long idleness."

"What I don't understand," said Priscilla, "is if Mary was so lonely, why didn't she call us up?"

"I can understand that easy enough," replied Peggy. "She called us up to tell us she had a phone, and after that, it was our move."

"And I suppose," suggested Amy, "that there isn't a great deal to talk about, when you don't get out of an upstairs room from one month to another."

"I suppose not," Priscilla acknowledged. Everything considered, it was a rather crest-fallen quartette of girls who returned from their afternoon's outing.

It was just half past nine next day when Mary Donaldson's telephone rang. "I'm not too early, am I?" said a cheery voice.

Mary, who had taken up the receiver with the air of uncertainty to which Miss Potts had referred, uttered a joyful exclamation. "Why, it's Peggy Raymond!"

"Yes, it's Peggy. I wanted to tell you about something perfectly killing that happened to Amy the other day." Peggy had made up her mind to ignore the months of silence. Explanations would not help matters, for nothing could explain away the fact that in the whirl and rush of their over-full lives they had, for the time being, quite forgotten Mary.

The story of Amy's impromptu dinner party proved as entertaining as Peggy had anticipated. Mary Donaldson laughed as she had not laughed for months. And in the next room Miss Potts, listening, made strange grimaces that seemed only distantly related to smiles. When the story was finished, Mary had some questions to ask. "Who are the Careys? There used to be a Carey girl in school—"

"I'm pretty sure they aren't related to her. They come from some place in New York and they've lived in our neighborhood less than a year. And do you know, Mary, we think Amy must have made quite an impression on the brother—Bob. He's called on her twice since, and he's asked her to go to the Glee Club concert."

"He has!" Romance dies hard in the heart of a girl. Poor Mary, shut away from contact with young life, was thrilled by the suggestion of an incipient love-story. "Is he nice looking?" she asked eagerly.

"Well, I've not met him yet, but I've noticed him passing several times, and I thought he was quite handsome. And Hildegarde is an awfully stylish girl, though I'd hardly call her pretty."

In ten minutes Peggy announced that she must go to a history lecture and rang off. She was smiling as she went to class, and wishing she could be an unseen listener to the conversations scheduled to take place in Mary's room every hour in the day.

As Peggy had promised, the bell of Mary's telephone worked over-time. The Friendly Terrace girls were supplemented by former school-mates in sufficient numbers to keep up the excitement till half past eight that evening. Most of the girls, whose memories Peggy had undertaken to jolt, were conscience-stricken when they realized how they had neglected Mary. And they readily fell in with Peggy's suggestion.

"Even if we can't get over there very often," urged Peggy, "we can use the telephone. Five minutes talk every few days will make Mary feel that she's in touch with us still. It doesn't seem to me I could bear feeling forgotten." Peggy did not realize that, even with Mary's disability, she would have made herself the center of some circle; and in her failure to understand that Mary's rather colorless personality was in part responsible for what had happened, Peggy was the more severe upon herself for what now seemed to her inexplicable and inexcusable neglect.

Thanks to the sudden activity of Peggy's conscience, Mary Donaldson heard more outside news in one day than she had heard in the three months previous. And as the trouble with most young people is want of thought, rather than want of heart, few of the girls were satisfied with chatting five or ten minutes over the telephone. They promised to come to see her soon. They offered to lend her books or mail her magazines. One girl suggested that she would bring over some of her victrola records for Mary to hear, and another informed her that as soon as the lilies of the valley were out she should have a cluster. All at once Mary Donaldson's friends were remembering her in earnest.

When Marian O'Neil rang off at twenty minutes of nine, Mary hesitated a moment and then called Peggy Raymond. And Peggy who was giving her studies that half-hearted attention customary on the first day after vacation, whether the student is in the primary grade or a college Junior, came running downstairs when Dick shouted her name.

"Hello—Hello—Why, Mary!" The pleasure in her tone was unmistakable, and the shut-in, two miles away, thrilled responsively.

"Peggy, I just wanted to tell you before I went to sleep that I've had such a lovely day."

"Have you, dear? I'm glad. What happened?"

The question took the guileless Mary aback. "I thought perhaps you knew something about it. My telephone has been ringing all day. It was queer if it was only a coincidence, for some girls called me up that I haven't heard from for years."

"Must have been what they call a brain wave," suggested Peggy, audaciously.

"Well, anyway, it was nice. I've heard so many things and talked with so many people that I feel as if I'd been to a party."

"If that's all, Mary, I'll prophesy there'll be just as nice days coming as this."

"Oh, do you think so, Peggy! Well, it's my bed time now, so I won't talk any longer. Good-night."

"Good-night!" And as Peggy hung up the receiver, she reflected that she had never done justice to the possibilities of the telephone.

CHAPTER III
A TRIUMPH OF ART

It was one of those warm, summer-like days of early June, when lessons and college classes are forgotten in the enjoyment of thoughts of the summer vacation to come. Such a few days left, and the four girls would be free for all the reading and the tennis and the sewing and the tramping which the press of examination preparation had forced aside. And they would all be together again this summer, which gave promise of many Quartette larks. The day was so perfect that all four had, as if of one mind, discarded their lessons for the remainder of the day, and had drifted over to Amy's.

"Do you know what I've been thinking about all week?" demanded Amy of the trio occupying her front porch. She did not wait for any of them to hazard a guess, but gave the answer herself, "Strawberries."

A soft little murmur went the rounds. "We had strawberries for dinner last night," said Peggy, "the best I've tasted this year."

"And we had strawberry short-cake." Priscilla smacked her lips reminiscently.

"And I had some strawberry ice cream at Birds'," put in Ruth. "It was so warm along about nine o'clock, you know, and Nelson and I went down. My, but it was good!"

Amy listened unmoved. "What I've been thinking about," she explained, "is strawberries in the patch, sticking their heads out from under the leaves, as if they were begging to be picked, warm from the sun, and sweet, and just spilling over with juice."

The girls sat attentive. Something in Amy's manner indicated that there was a background of reality for this flight of fancy.

"I've got a sort of relation living about ten miles out of town," Amy continued. "Aunt Phoebe Cummings, only that isn't her name. Five years ago she married a man named Frost."

"How interesting to get a new uncle at your age," interjected Ruth.

"I don't regard him as much of an addition to the family," retorted Amy drily. "When I talk about him, I call him, 'Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back.' But to his face, he's Mr. Frost. You see, Aunt Phoebe isn't exactly an aunt. I believe she's a second cousin of my grandfather's first wife, but she's nicer than lots of real aunts."

"I do think you have the nicest relations, Amy Lassell," interposed Peggy. "Now Aunt Abigail, at Doolittle cottage, was a perfect dear."

Priscilla showed signs of impatience. "What has all this to do with strawberries?"

"Well, I'm coming to that. My Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back owns a little farm, and they've got strawberries to burn. And almost every year Aunt Phoebe says she wishes I'd come out when the strawberries are ripe and bring some of my friends."

"Amy Lassell!" exclaimed Priscilla reproachfully. "Do you mean that Mrs. Philander has been begging you to do this for the last five years, and that this is the first we've heard of it?"

"Well, as a rule she mentions it along about August, or October, and I forget it by June. But she came in town to shop the other day and took dinner with us, and when she left, she broached the subject again. She said the strawberries would be at their best by the middle of next week and she'd love to meet you all. What do you think of a trip to the country along about Wednesday?"

There were certain subjects regarding which, in spite of their devoted friendship, the Friendly Terrace quartette could develop considerable diversity of opinion. But on this occasion, their unanimity would have gratified the hospitable instincts of Amy's Aunt Phoebe. Strawberries boxed and displayed in show windows, or even transformed into such delicacies as short cake and ice cream, seemed prosaic all at once. What they wanted was to be turned loose in a strawberry patch, to stain their fingers plucking the strawberries from the vines. Before leaving the porch the girls watched Amy pen a note to her relative, accepting her oft-repeated invitation in behalf of herself and friends, and suggesting the following Wednesday as a desirable time for their visit.

A rather cloudy Tuesday awakened anxious apprehensions in the minds of the four girls, apprehensions dissipated, however, by the cloudless dawn of Wednesday. The height of the strawberry season is the most charming time of the year. The four ate an early luncheon at Peggy's home, and then took the trolley for the outskirts of the city. Once outside the city, the trolley car bowled along at an exhilarating pace, and in spite of the prospects ahead, the girls were almost sorry when the ten-miles were up, and the breezy ride was ended.

Aunt Phoebe was a little old lady whose black skirt was quaintly full and showed signs of wear, partially concealed by a white ruffled apron of unusual size. She greeted them as affectionately as if they had all been nieces by adoption, and conducted them indoors to take off their hats. The living room through which they passed was large and pleasantly and immaculately neat, the unpainted floor having been scrubbed to a milky whiteness.

The tapping of the girls' heels on the boards emphasized their bareness. "Got your rugs up for the summer, I see," remarked Amy casually. The comment was natural enough under the circumstances, but unluckily it opened the door of the closet which contained the Frosts' family skeleton. Aunt Phoebe reddened as if Amy's innocent remark had been a slap in the face. "My sitting room carpet's worn out," she said. "It was worn out when I came here. I patched it and I pieced it and I made it last a good three years after anybody else would have put it in the rags, and now he says there's no sense buying a new one."

"Mr. Frost, you mean?"

"Yes. He's got awful queer notions, Philander has. He talks about bare floors being healthy. Good gracious! It gives me a chill to think of this room in November without a carpet on the floor. I've done without lots of things in my life, but I never was too poor to have my floors carpeted."

Amy was sorry she had broached the subject, for now that Aunt Phoebe was started, she seemed to find it difficult to stop talking about her grievance. Like many people who do not ask a great deal of life, she was the more insistent regarding the few things she counted essential. The bare floor, echoing noisily under the tread of her guests, stirred her indignation and almost spoiled her childlike satisfaction in entertaining Amy and her friends.

But worse was coming. It appeared that Aunt Phoebe had a heaped glass dish of berries to be served in the conventional fashion with sugar and cream, but she suggested that first the girls might enjoy helping themselves from the patch. As this was really what they had come for, they acquiesced heartily, and Aunt Phoebe led the way. Her kindly old face lost its pensiveness as she watched the laughing girls picking the berries from the vines, their lips and fingers reddening as the feast proceeded. Then without any warning, a deep voice spoke out of the shrubbery, and only too much to the point. "The commission men," said the voice, "are paying twelve cents a box for them strawberries."

Four berry-pickers straightened themselves and looked at one another aghast. Aunt Phoebe rushed furiously to their defense. "Philander Frost, this is my niece, Amy Lassell, and she's brought out some young friends to eat strawberries, because I asked her to." Her faded blue eyes emitted electric sparks as she defied him.

"Pleased to meet you, I'm sure," said Mr. Frost, still with an air of profound melancholy. "I don't grudge a few strawberries any more than the next man, but with them bringing twelve cents a box—"

"Philander!" The little wrinkled wife was fairly beside herself with mortification. Her withered skin, suffused by a burning blush, rivalled the vivid coloring of youth. "Philander, I don't care if the strawberries are a dollar a quart—"

"Oh, well," said Mr. Frost patiently. "I just thought I'd mention it." He turned away while four girls stood motionless in the strawberry patch, as if there had been a Medusa-like quality in his gaze, turning them all to stone.

"Go right on, dearies," commanded Aunt Phoebe, raising her voice defiantly, so that it should reach the ears of her departing lord and master. "Eat all you want to." But though as a matter of principle, the girls attempted to obey, the sweetness had gone from the luscious fruit. They ate half-heartedly, ashamed to meet one another's eyes, calculating, in spite of themselves, how much Mr. Frost was out of pocket because of their visit.

Aunt Phoebe was plainly disappointed when they declared that they had had enough. She tried to encourage them to think better of it, and when they still insisted, led the way to the house. "I don't think much of strawberries without trimmings, myself," she declared over her shoulder. "When you taste them with sugar and cream, I guess you'll find your appetites coming back."

The porch at the side of the house was shaded and inviting. Aunt Phoebe insisted on their seating themselves, while she waited on them. Against the snowy covering of the small, round table, the big dish of choice berries made a fine showing. Then Aunt Phoebe brought out a pitcher of rich yellow cream, and the spirits of the crest-fallen group began to revive. The appearance of a heaping plate-full of cookies was hailed with appreciative smiles.

"Plenty more cookies in the jar," said Aunt Phoebe, helping them with lavish hand. "And plenty more berries. Eat all you can."

They had almost reached the point of forgetting Mr. Frost and his discomforting comments, when he again made his appearance. Peggy lost the thread of the story she was telling and stopped short, but as no one was listening, that made no difference.

Mr. Frost seated himself and sighed heavily. "Some folks is afraid to eat too many strawberries," he said. "They're likely to cause a rash."

The girls, not knowing what to say, went on eating mechanically. Aunt Phoebe, however, straightened herself over her saucer. "I don't mind a rash," she announced, "not in such a good cause."

"It ain't that I care for the expense," Mr. Frost said feelingly, "though of course, with the cost of living so high, sensible folks ought to do without everything that ain't necessary. Now Phoebe's got an idea that she wants a new carpet for the sitting room—"

"I've got an idea that I'm going to have one, too," said Aunt Phoebe, breathing hard.

"I tell her that bare floors is all the rage," said Mr. Frost, looking from one to another of the girls, as if he hoped to find an ally in one of them. "Carpets are hiding-places for all sorts of germs. The swellest folks there is have bare floors nowadays, I tell her."

"I guess their bare floors don't look much like mine," exploded Aunt Phoebe, "just common pine boards, not even painted."

"I wouldn't mind letting you paint 'em," said Mr. Frost. "Of course paint is very expensive these days, but if it would make you feel any better—"

"What I want," Aunt Phoebe was beginning wrathfully, when Amy interrupted. She addressed herself to Mr. Frost, and her manner was propitiatory. "A painted floor isn't so bad," she said. "Lots of folks have painted floors."

"A body's feet would freeze in winter," exclaimed Aunt Phoebe, plainly bewildered at Amy's taking sides against her.

"You want to wear good thick shoes and stockings," replied Mr. Frost, eyeing Amy approvingly. His manner indicated that as far as she was concerned, he did not grudge the strawberries.

"I was going to say," continued Amy, returning his friendly gaze with interest, "that I wouldn't mind coming out and painting the floors for you some day."

The other Friendly Terrace girls looked at one another in surprise. They could not understand Amy. Apparently she was trying to curry favor with Mr. Frost by taking sides with him against Aunt Phoebe, yet none of them considered this the real explanation. Whatever her intention, it was plain that Amy had made a conquest of Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back. For the rest of their stay, he addressed most his remarks to her, and though his conversation dealt largely with the high cost of living and the necessity for thrift, their inexplicable friend seemed highly edified.

When they took their departure, Mr. Frost again brought up the subject of the floor. "If you should happen to feel like painting it some day—"

"Oh, I'm coming," said Amy smiling up at him. "I'll get the other girls to help me, and we'll make short work of it."

"I think I've got pretty near enough paint left from painting the barn—"

Aunt Phoebe's accession of color suggested an attack of apoplexy, for the barn was the color of a ripe pumpkin. Amy hastily interposed, "Oh, I'll bring the paint."

"Will you now? Well, I call that the right spirit. I like to see young folks appreciative," declared Mr. Frost. "Strawberries are bringing a good price this year, but I'm sure you're welcome to every one you et."

On the way to the car Amy walked beside Aunt Phoebe, holding fast to her arm and chattering like a magpie. And as she kissed the old lady good-by, she pulled her close and whispered in her ear. It was impossible to know what she said, but Aunt Phoebe's lugubrious countenance showed an immediate improvement. She stared at Amy with an expression of incredulity which presently became a bewildered smile.

The uncertainty of the other Friendly Terrace girls, as to whether or not Amy had intended her promise to be taken literally, was dissipated about a week later when she called on them to accompany her and assist in the painting of Aunt Phoebe's sitting-room floor. Thoughtlessly Amy had selected a date when Peggy had an imperative engagement. Peggy urged her to choose another day, but Amy found insuperable objections to a change.

"But I don't like this," said Peggy. "I ate as many strawberries as anybody, and if you're painting the floor to pay your uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back, I want to do my share." And to this, Amy replied imperturbably that she need not worry, for Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back would be paid in full, without her assistance.

"It really is a pity Peggy couldn't come." The trio was fairly on its way. "She knows more about such work than any of us."

"I'm afraid Peggy wouldn't be much of a help to-day," replied Amy.

"Peggy not a help? Why not?" Priscilla's manner indicated that if any criticism of Peggy were implied, she would not stand for it.

"Peggy's conscience is such a Johnny-on-the-spot," Amy explained. "It never seems to take a vacation the way ours do, and I'm afraid it would be dreadfully in the way to-day."

"Why, what do you mean?" demanded Priscilla and Ruth together.

Amy opened the little grip she carried, produced a small-sized can of paint and handed it to Priscilla. A similar one was bestowed on the perplexed Ruth, and then Amy leaned back and looked from one to the other triumphantly.

"What do you want me to do with it?" frowned Priscilla. Then with a violent start, "Why, Amy Lassell!"

"Well?"

"This paint is moss green."

"And this," cried Ruth excitedly, "is yellow."

"And in here," explained Amy, patting her bag tenderly, "are all the colors of the rainbow in half pint cans. Did you ever see an exhibition of cubist pictures?"

"Yes, once," replied Priscilla mechanically, while Ruth too amazed for words, stared dumbly at her friend.

"Well, that is the way Aunt Phoebe's floor is going to look when we are through with it."

"Why, Amy," gasped Ruth, suddenly finding her voice. "You can't do anything like that. He wouldn't let you."

"He won't be there. I've arranged for Aunt Phoebe to take him off for the day. The key to the house has been left hanging on the back porch."

"Does she know?"

"She doesn't, for I thought it was best for her to be able to say she didn't know a thing about it. But she suspects that something's in the wind."

Priscilla hesitated. "I suppose your idea is—"

"My idea is to make such a looking floor that he will be only too glad to buy a carpet to cover it."

The three girls looked at one another, and then Ruth gave a little nervous giggle. After a minute Priscilla joined in. And then all three leaned back in the seats in a paroxysm of silent laughter, while their fellow passengers regarded them enviously.

"Well, I don't know but you're right about Peggy," admitted Priscilla, at length, wiping her eyes. "I'm pretty sure she would not have approved."

"I think it serves him just right," declared Ruth. "I detest stingy people."

"It does serve him right," said Amy. "He has plenty of money, but he hates to part with any of it. Poor Aunt Phoebe has a little money of her own, and before she married him she got no end of fun out of doing things for other people. And now the dear old soul can't even treat her friends to strawberries without being humiliated. Anyway," concluded Amy with decision, "I'm bound she shall have a carpet for her living room next winter."

They found the farm house on the hill silent and deserted, the back door locked, and the key hanging in such plain view that it seemed an invitation to enter. Indoors they found the living room made ready against their coming. All the furniture had been moved into adjoining rooms and the floor had been given an extra and quite unnecessary scrubbing.

The girls hastily arrayed themselves for the work. Priscilla and Amy had brought along the outfits they had worn as farmerettes, while Ruth donned a worn-out bathing suit. Then Amy pried off the covers of her array of cans, and presented each of her friends with a small paintbrush. The fun began.

Amy's suggestion that a striking design should be painted in the middle of the room, and at each of the four corners, was enthusiastically accepted, and Priscilla at once undertook the execution of a Chinese dragon in the corner of the room which was most in evidence to one standing in the doorway. Amy taking possession of the can of yellow paint, set herself to reproduce a sunrise in the center of the room, the yellow rays radiating from the central golden orb in the most realistic manner. Ruth, her imagination stimulated by the discovery of a can of black paint, promptly set about balancing Priscilla's dragon by a black cat in the opposite corner, its back arched like a bow, and its tail standing upright like an ebony plume.

They splashed about, admiring one another's work enthusiastically and complacently accepting compliments for their own. And when the various masterpieces had been executed to the satisfaction of the artists, they fell to work filling in the remaining spaces with gaily colored rhomboids, red, yellow, green, black, and purple. Nothing more gorgeous than Aunt Phoebe's painted floor could possibly be imagined. Even the highly colored chromos on the wall paled before it. In some respects it suggested an old-fashioned crazy-quilt, though when the dragon and the black cat were taken into account, it was more like a bad case of nightmare. After the girls had finished, they withdrew to the next room and, gazing upon it, tried to imagine the sensations of Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back when its kaleidoscopic magnificence should break upon his astonished gaze.

Suddenly they were panic-stricken for fear the occupants of the farm house should return before they had taken their departure. They dressed in such haste that they failed to get the full benefit of the bottle of turpentine Amy had brought along for cleansing purposes, and they went back to town with green and purple smudges on their fingers. As soon as they had reached home, they descended on Peggy to tell her of the manner in which they had fulfilled Amy's promise, and Peggy listened with amazement tinged with admiration.

"I'm rather glad you didn't tell me, for I'm afraid I should have thrown cold water, and I can't help thinking it's exactly what Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back deserves. And if it really drives him into buying a new carpet, I shall feel satisfied that you've done the right thing."

The four girls had agreed to play tennis Saturday of that week, but early Saturday morning Amy called Peggy up to ask to be excused. "Aunt Phoebe is coming in town for some shopping," she explained, and interrupted herself by an ecstatic giggle. "And she wants me to go with her. She wants me to help her select a carpet for the sitting room."

CHAPTER IV
AN AFTERNOON CALL

Priscilla sat at her little dressing table, studying her reflection in the mirror with an absorbed intentness which would have impressed nine observers out of ten as a naïve exhibition of vanity. This verdict, however, would have been most unfair. Though many people considered Priscilla a really handsome girl, she had always been inclined to be unduly modest regarding her personal appearance. Her present scrutiny was solely for the purpose of discovering the blemish which she was sure must be apparent to all beholders.

For a girl of her age, Priscilla had thought very little about the opposite sex. Her devotion to Peggy had been a sufficient outlet for her sentiment, while her contempt for those girls who could think and talk of nothing but the "boys" had, perhaps, led her to go needlessly far in the opposite direction. The youths who had fluttered mothlike about the tall, graceful girl had met such a baffling indifference that they had transferred their attentions to some more responsive luminary, while Priscilla went on her way unruffled.

But this year things were different. The four Friendly Terrace chums were no longer sufficient to themselves. Peggy was engaged. Since Nelson Hallowell's return from the service, he had been a very frequent caller at Ruth's home. And on one or two occasions when Priscilla had run over to Amy's in the evening, she had found one of the porch chairs occupied by Robert Carey. Priscilla began to have a feeling of being left out, new in her experience and most unpleasant. She wondered what there was about her to differentiate her from other girls. She studied her reflection, dreading yet half expecting to see some flaw which would inevitably repel the beholder.

On this particular afternoon as Priscilla faced herself in the glass and tried to discover the defects that kept admirers at a distance, affairs had reached a crisis. The University Field Day had long been a thrilling occasion to many of the young people of the city, not merely because of their interest in the various events, but because it was customary for each of the young fellows who attended to ask some girl to accompany him. Priscilla had taken it for granted that Peggy would go with Graham, and was not surprised to learn that Nelson had been promised the pleasure of Ruth's company on the important occasion. But when she had suggested to Amy that they should go together, and Amy after a moment's hesitation had replied, "Why, the fact is, Priscilla, Bob Carey has asked me to go with him," Priscilla was conscious of a distinct shock. Her subsequent dejection had nothing to do with the prospect of missing Field Day. But when she asked herself if she were really the least attractive girl in the world, she could see no escape from an affirmative answer.

It was while she sat there, heavy-hearted and vaguely resentful, that the maid brought up a card, one of those small, inobtrusive slips of cardboard which proclaim the modesty of the socially inclined male. Priscilla took it, impressed in spite of herself. Though she was old enough to have become accustomed to such little conventions, the life of a college girl is so necessarily informal that few people who came to see Priscilla announced their presence in this fashion. And this was the first time a young man had sent up his card to Priscilla.

"Mr. Horace Endicott Hitchcock," read Priscilla, and if the truth be told, she was conscious of an undefined disappointment. She had known Horace Hitchcock for a dozen years, ever since a smug little boy in a velvet suit, he had attended the children's parties which were her earliest social dissipations. As he was about three years older than Priscilla she had admired him extremely in those days when the velvet suit was much in evidence. But her attitude had altered long before she had considered herself too old to play dolls.

Horace's boyhood had been a trying period. He had never had a boy friend, the lads of his own age agreeing with contemptuous unanimity that he was a "sissy." Perhaps for the same reason, the girls had found him as little appealing. But as he neared his majority, Horace had blossomed into a belated popularity. He was somewhat effeminate as far as his appearance went. He talked very rapidly, and used more gestures than is customary with young Americans. Horace dressed in excellent taste, and was somewhat of an authority on shirts and ties and matters equally important. Although he was supposed to be an insurance solicitor, he was never too occupied to attend any social affair at any hour of the day, and this gave him an advantage over the young men who were on duty till five o'clock or later. Priscilla had seen very little of him since she had entered college, and now as she looked at his card she only wondered if he had come to ask her to play for some entertainment.

Priscilla gave a last dissatisfied glance at her reflection in the glass, captured a stray lock with a hairpin, and went downstairs. Sensible girl as she was, she found herself impressed by Horace's greeting. He bowed very low over her hand, like the hero of a picture play, and drew up a chair for her with great elegance of manner. To a girl suffering from lack of proper self-esteem, his air of deference was peculiarly soothing. Yet even then, it never occurred to Priscilla that this was a social call. She listened to Horace's voluble talk, made such replies as seemed necessary, noted approvingly the perfect fit of his light suit, and the fact that his tie matched his silk socks, and waited patiently for him to come to the point.

Something like twenty minutes had passed when Priscilla reached a realizing sense of the situation. All at once, while Horace was describing minutely the country house where he had spent the previous week-end, Priscilla gave a little start and colored high. It had just dawned upon her that Horace had not come upon any utilitarian errand, that he was there for the sole purpose of seeing her. It took her a little time to adjust herself to the novel idea, and if Horace had asked her a point-blank question during the interval, she would not have known whether to answer yes or no, for she had not the least idea what he was talking about.

Then Priscilla waked up. She exerted herself to be charming. She talked almost as fluently as Horace himself. She laughed delightedly at his little jests; though, if the truth be told, Horace's humor was decidedly anemic. She listened raptly to his stories of his achievements, and was ready with the expected admiring smile when the time arrived. A curious sense of unreality possessed her. She felt as if she were taking part in an exciting game.

"Miss Priscilla," said Horace suddenly, "are you at all interested in Field Day?"

"It's not so bad when one knows the men," Priscilla replied, and the answer showed the effect of Horace's influence in a little over half an hour. For Priscilla adored Field Day. When she watched the various events her heart pounded as if she herself were taking part in the hundred yard dash. At the close of an exciting race, she had often found herself on her feet, shrieking spasmodically, and waving her handkerchief, and feeling the smart of tears in her strained eyes. But instinctively Priscilla knew that Horace would not consider Field Day a legitimate cause for excitement, and so she answered as she did.

"Sometimes I find it a deuce of a bore," Horace said. "The crowd and the noise, don't you know. But if you are willing to accompany me next Friday, Miss Priscilla, I'm sure this Field Day will prove a delightful exception."

"Oh, thank you," Priscilla said carelessly. "I should enjoy going very much." Her nonchalant acceptance of the invitation gave no idea of her tumultuous excitement. She was no longer the odd one of the quartette of chums. She was no longer left out. Her misgivings regarding herself were instantaneously set at rest, for she knew that, had she been as unattractive as she had feared, Horace Hitchcock would never have invited her to accompany him on such an occasion. Her pulses throbbed, and there was a humming in her ears as she chattered on without any clear idea of what she was saying.

Priscilla's feeling of elation had nothing to do with Horace's personality. Had he been any other young man, equally well dressed and well mannered, she would have felt exactly the same. Yet under the circumstances she experienced a not unreasonable sense of gratitude. She shut her eyes to the little affectations of manner which ordinarily she would have found amusing. She refused to acknowledge to herself that Horace was bragging. She had never liked him, and the Horace who had invited her to the Field Day exercises was in all essentials the Horace of the velvet suit; yet now, if she had heard him criticized, she would have rushed impetuously to his defense. In short, Priscilla was started on a course which many an older and wiser woman has followed to disaster.

Priscilla was in no hurry to mention the fact that she expected to be a spectator of the Field Day events. The very intensity of her previous qualms made her the more inclined to treat the present situation nonchalantly. On Thursday evening, however, she remarked casually to Peggy that she hoped their seats would not be too far separated. Peggy looked up in pleased surprise.

"Are you going, Priscilla? I'm awful glad. Who's taking you?"

"Horace Hitchcock."

"Horace Hitchcock!" Peggy repeated the name in such accents of astonishment that Priscilla flushed. "Why not?" she asked rather coldly.

"I didn't know you saw anything of him."