spent the intervening time on the Browning. I had Livy the next hour and was called on to translate. As I had spent several hours on the lesson the day before, I could do so. After the elocution recitation I went home to lunch. At quarter before two I began studying my history. At quarter before four I started for the gymnasium. At five I went to a tea which one of the girls was giving for her mother, so I felt obliged to go. I stayed only half an hour and cannot remember how I spent the half hour till dinner, so I presume it was wasted. I am afraid I am too much given to describing such unimportant pauses in the day’s occupation and magnifying their length and the frivolous pleasure which we thoughtlessly derive from them.
“In the evening – Oh it all goes on like that,” cried Roberta. “Just dull and stuffy and true to the facts. Some one else read.”
“It’s convincing,” chuckled Mary. “Now Katherine.”
Katherine’s letter was an absurd mixture of sense and nonsense, in which she proved that she studied at least twelve hours out of the twenty-four. Rachel’s was a sensible explanation of just how much time, or rather how little, a spread, a dance or a basket-ball game takes.
“That’s what they don’t understand,” she said, “and they don’t know either how fast we can go from one thing to another up here. Why, energy is in the air!”
Betty’s letter, like her literature paper, was extremely short. “I couldn’t think of much to say, if I told the truth,” she explained, blushing. “I don’t suppose I do study as much as I ought.”
Mary had listened with an air of respectful attention to all the letters. When the last one was finished she rose hastily. “I must go back,” she said. “I have a theme to write. I only dropped in to ask if that famous spread wasn’t coming off soon.”
“Oh, yes,” said Betty. “Let’s have it next week Wednesday. Is anything else going on then? I’ll ask Eleanor and you see the Riches and Helen.”
A few days later Mary appeared at the lunch table fairly bursting with importance. “Well,” she said, beaming around the table. “What do you suppose has happened now? Really, Mrs. Chapin, you ought to be proud of us. We began to be famous before college opened – ”
“What?” interrupted Eleanor.
“Is it possible you didn’t know that?” inquired Mary. “Well, it’s true nevertheless. And we were the heroines of Mountain Day, and now we’re famous again.”
“How?” demanded the table in a chorus.
Mary smiled enigmatically. “This time it is a literary sensation,” she said.
“Is it Helen’s paper?” hazarded Betty.
“Mine, of course,” said Katherine. “Strange Miss Mills didn’t mention it this morning when I met her at Cuyler’s.”
Mary waited until it was quiet again. “If you’ve quite finished guessing,” she said, “I’ll tell you. You remember the evening when I found four of you in Rachel and Katherine’s room writing deceitful letters to your fond parents. Well, I had been racking my brains for weeks for a pleasing and original theme subject. You know you are supposed to spend two hours a week on this theme course, and I had spent two hours for four weeks in just thinking what to write. I’m not sure whether that counts at all and I didn’t like to ask–it would have been so conspicuous. So I was in despair when I chanced upon your happy gathering and was saved. Miss Raymond read it in class to-day,” concluded Mary triumphantly.
“You didn’t put us into it–our letters!” gasped Roberta.
“Indeed I did,” said Mary. “I put them all in, as nearly as I could remember them, and Miss Raymond read it in class, and made all sorts of clever comments about college customs and ideals and so on. I felt guilty, because I never had anything read before, and of course I didn’t exactly write this because the letters were the main part of it. So after class I waited for Miss Raymond and explained how it was. She laughed and said that she was glad I had an eye for good material and that she supposed all authors made more or less use of their acquaintance, and when I went off she actually asked me to come and see her. My junior friends are hoping it will pull me into a society and I’m hoping it will avert a condition.”
“Where is the theme?” asked Eleanor. “Won’t you read it to us?”
“It’s–why, I forgot the very best part of the whole story. Sallie Hill has it for the ‘Argus.’ She’s the literary editor, you know, and she wants it for the next number. So you see you are famous.
“Why don’t some of you elect this work?” asked Mary, when the excitement had somewhat subsided. “It’s open to freshmen, and it’s really great fun.”
“I thought you said that you spent eight hours and were in despair – ” began Eleanor.
“So I was,” said Mary. “I declare I’d forgotten that. Well, anyhow I’m sure I shan’t have any trouble now. I think I’ve learned how to go at it. Why, do you know, girls, I have an idea already. Not for a theme–something else. It concerns all of you–or most of you anyway.”
“I should think you’d made enough use of us for the present,” said Betty. “Why don’t you try to make a few sophomores famous?”
“Oh it doesn’t concern you that way. You are to – Oh wait till I get it started,” said Mary vaguely; and absolutely refused to be more explicit.
CHAPTER VII
A DRAMATIC CHAPTER
The Chapin house girls decided not to spend the proceeds of the dancing class for an elaborate supper, as they had first intended, but to turn their “spread” into the common college type, where “plowed field” and chocolate made with condensed milk and boiling water are the chief refreshments, and light-hearted sociability ensures a good time for everybody.
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