of them except this, Lieutenant," smiled her mother, holding up the letter she had been reading. "But why all this haste? I hardly expected you back so soon. Five minutes before luncheon is your usual time for reappearing," she slyly reminded.
"Oh, I had an unmistakable hunch that there was a letter here for me from Mary, so I let Connie off easy on her lesson. I'll make up for it to-morrow."
By this time Marjorie held in her hand the half-dozen envelopes, each bearing its own special message from the various friends who held more or less important places in her regard, and was rapidly going over them.
"Here's one from Jerry and one from Hal." The pink in her cheeks deepened at sight of the familiar boyish hand. "One from Marcia Arnold, another from Muriel Harding. Here's a tiresome advertisement." She threw the fifth envelope disdainfully on the wicker table at her side. "And – yes, here it is, in Mary's very own handwriting!"
Laying the other letters on the table with a carefulness that bespoke their value, Marjorie hastily tore open the envelope that contained news of her friend and drawing out a single closely written sheet of paper said apologetically, "You won't mind if I read this now, will you, Connie and Mother?"
"Go ahead," urged Constance. "We couldn't be so hard-hearted as to object."
Mrs. Dean smiled her assent. Marjorie's thoughtfulness of others was always a secret source of joy to her.
Marjorie read down the page, then uttered a little squeal of delight. "Mother!" she exclaimed joyously, "just listen to this:
"Dearest Marjorie:
"You will wonder, perhaps, what has happened to me. I know I have owed you a letter for over two weeks, but I have been so busy taking care of mother that I haven't had very much time to write. Of course, we have a nurse, but, still, there are so many little things to be done for her, which she likes to have me do. She is much better, but our doctor says she must go to a famous health resort in the West for the winter. She will start for Colorado in about two weeks, and now comes the part of my letter which I hope you will like to read. I am going to make you a visit. Father and I are coming to see you on a very mysterious mission. I won't tell you anything more about it until I see you. Part of it is sad and part of it glad, and it all depends upon three persons whether it will ever happen. There! That ought to keep you guessing.
"You wrote me that you would be at home in Sanford by the last of next week. Please writs me at once and let me know just exactly when you expect to reach there. We shall not try to come to the seashore, as father prefers to wait until you are back in Sanford again. With much love to you and your mother,
Marjorie finished the last word with a jubilant wave of the letter.
"What do you think of that, Captain? What do you suppose this mysterious mission can be?" Marjorie's face was alight with affectionate curiosity.
"I am not good at guessing," Mrs. Dean smiled tolerantly. The ways of schoolgirls were usually shrouded with a profound mystery, which disappeared into nothingness when confronted with reality.
"It must be something extraordinary. She says it's part sad and part glad. I hope it's mostly glad. I know I'm glad that I'm going to see her. Why, it's almost a year since we said good-bye to each other! Oh, Connie," she turned rapturously to Constance, "you two girls, my dearest friends, who look alike, will actually meet at last! You'll love Mary. You can't help yourself, and she'll love you. She can't do anything else."
"I hope she will like me," said Constance a trifle soberly. "I know I shall like her, because she is your friend, Marjorie."
"You'll like her for yourself, Connie," predicted Marjorie loyally, and secure in the belief that neither of these two girls, whose friendship she held above rubies, could fail her, Marjorie Dean dreamed of a kingdom of fellowship into which the three were fated to enter only after scaling the steep and difficult walls of misunderstanding.
CHAPTER II
THE SHADOW
"Listen, Connie! Do you hear that train whistling? I'm sure it's Mary's train."
Marjorie Dean peered anxiously up the track in the direction of the sound. In the distance her alert eyes spied the smoke of the approaching train before it rounded the bend and appeared in full view, and her heart beat high with the thought that the longer-for moment had come at last.
Since her return to Sanford, five days before, Marjorie had been in a quiver of affectionate impatience. How slowly the days dragged! She read and re-read Mary's latest letter, stating that she and her father would arrive at Sanford on Wednesday on the 4.30 train and her impatience grew. It was not alone that she desired to see Mary. There was the "mysterious mission" to be considered. What girl does not love a mystery? And Marjorie was no exception. At that moment, however, as she waited for her childhood's friend, all thought of the mystery was swept aside in the longing to see Mary again.
As the train rumbled into the station and after many groans and shudders stopped with a last protesting creak of wheels, Marjorie's anxious gaze traveled up and down its length. Suddenly, at the far end, she spied a tall, familiar figure descending the car steps. Close behind him followed a slender girl in blue. With a cluck of joy and a "There she is!" Marjorie fairly raced up the station platform. Constance followed, but proceeded more slowly. To Marjorie belonged the right to the first rapturous moments with her chum. In her girlish soul lurked no trace of jealousy. She understood that with Marjorie, Mary must always be first, and she was filled with an unselfish happiness for the pleasure of the girl who had braved all things for her and would forever mean all that was best and highest to her.
"Mary!" Marjorie exclaimed, her clear voice trembling with emotion.
"Oh, Marjorie, it's been ages," quavered Mary Raymond. Then the two became locked in a tempestuous embrace.
"Here, here, where do I come in?" asked an injured voice, as the two young women continued to croon over each other, all else forgotten.
Marjorie gently disengaged herself from Mary's detaining arms and turned to give her hand to Mr. Raymond.
"I'm so glad to see you," she said fervently. "Mother is waiting in our car, just the other side of the station. But first, let me introduce my friend, Constance Stevens. Why, where is she? I thought she was right behind me. Oh, here she comes. Hurry up, Connie!"
Constance approached rather shyly. In spite of the fact that the old days of poverty and heartache lay behind her like a bad dream, she was still curiously reserved and diffident in the presence of strangers. The decision of her aunt, Miss Susan Allison, to take up her abode in Sanford in order that Constance might finish her high school course with Marjorie had brought many changes into the life of the once friendless girl. Miss Allison had purchased a handsome property on the outskirts of Sanford, and, after much persuasion, had, with one exception, induced the occupants of the little gray house to share it with her. Soon afterward Mr. Stevens, Constance's foster-father, whose name she still bore and refused to change, had accepted a position as first violin in a symphony orchestra and had gone to fulfill his destiny in the world of music which he loved. Uncle John Roland and little Charlie, once puny and crippled, but now strong and rosy, had, with Constance, come into the lonely old woman's household at a time when she most needed them, and, in her contrition for the lost years of happiness which she had so stubbornly thrust aside, she was in a fair way to spoil her little flock by too much petting.
The fact that from a mere nobody Constance Stevens had become the social equal of Sanford's most exclusive contingent did
