written me of you. How long have you been in Sanford?"
Mary answered rather shyly, explaining her situation, while Marjorie looked on with affectionate eyes. She was anxious that Miss Archer should learn to know and love Mary.
"I will put you in Marjorie's hands," declared Miss Archer, after a few moments' pleasant conversation. "She will take you to the study hall and see that you are made to feel at home. We wish our girls to look upon their school as their second home, considering they spend so much of their time here. Please tell your mother, Marjorie," she added, as the two girls turned to leave the room, "that I shall try to call on her this week."
"How do you like Miss Archer? Isn't she splendid?" were the quick questions Marjorie put, as they retraced their steps down the long corridor.
"I know I'm going to love her," returned Mary fervently. "I hope I'll be happy here, Marjorie." There was a wistful note in her voice that caused Marjorie to glance sharply at her friend. Mary's charming face was set in unusually sober lines.
"Poor Mary," was her reflection. "She's thinking of her mother." But Mary Raymond's thoughts were far from the subject of her mother. Instead, they were fixed upon what Jerry Macy had said that morning about Constance Stevens. Miss Archer had asked about Constance, too. She had spoken of her as though she and Marjorie were best friends. What had she meant when she said, "Well, Marjorie, you and Constance deserve fair sophomore weather after last year's storms." The flame of jealousy, which Mary had sought to stifle after her first meeting with Constance, was kindled afresh.
"What did Miss Archer mean when she spoke of you and Miss Stevens – and last year's storms?" she asked abruptly.
"Oh, I can't explain now. It's too long a story. Here we are at the study hall." Her mind occupied with school, Marjorie had not caught the strained note in Mary's voice.
"She doesn't wish me to know," was Mary's jealous thought. "She is keeping secrets from me. All right. Let her keep them. Only I know one thing, and that is – I'll never, never, never be friends with Constance Stevens, not even to please Marjorie!"
CHAPTER V
AN UNCALLED-FOR REBUFF
The great study hall which Marjorie and Mary entered had little of the atmosphere supposed to pervade a hall of learning. A loud buzz of conversation greeted their ears. It came from the groups of girls collected in various parts of the hall, who were making the most of their opportunities to talk until called to order. Marjorie gave one swift glance toward the lonely desk on the platform. It had always reminded her of an island in the midst of a great sea. She breathed a little sigh of relief. Her pet aversion, Miss Merton, was not occupying the chair behind it. This, no doubt, accounted for the general air of relaxation that pervaded the room. Her alert eyes searched the room for Constance Stevens. She was not present. She gave another sigh, this time it was one of disappointment. She had seen Constance only twice since Mary's arrival. On one occasion she had taken dinner at the Deans' home. The three girls had spent, what seemed to Marjorie, an unusually pleasant evening. Constance, feeling dimly that Mary did not quite approve of her, had dropped her usually reticent manner and exerted herself to please. So well had she succeeded that Mary had rather unwillingly succumbed to her charm and grown fairly cordial.
Totally unconscious of the shadow which had darkened the pleasure of Constance's first meeting with Mary, and equally ignorant of Mary's secret resentment of her new friend, Marjorie had retired that night inwardly rejoicing in both girls and planning all sorts of good times that they three might have together.
Several days later Constance had entertained them at luncheon at "Gray Gables," the beautiful, old-fashioned house Miss Allison had purchased, on the outskirts of Sanford. Mary had been secretly impressed with its luxury and had instantly made friends with little Charlie. The quaint child had gravely informed her that she looked like Connie and immediately taken her into his confidence regarding his aspirations toward some day playing in "a big band." He had also obligingly favored her with a solo of marvelous shrieks and squawks on his much tortured "fiddle." Mary loved children, and this, perhaps, went far toward stilling the jealousy, which, so far, only faintly stirring, bade fair to one day burst forth into bitter words.
"I'll see you in school on Monday," Marjorie had called over her shoulder, as she and Mary had taken their departure from Constance's home that afternoon. But now Monday had come and there was no sign of the girl Marjorie held so dear in the study hall.
"Connie had better hurry. It's five minutes to nine. She'll be late." Marjorie's gaze traveled anxiously toward the door. An unmistakable frown puckered Mary's brows, but Marjorie did not see it.
"Oh, Marjorie Dean, here you are at last. We've been waiting for you." Susan Atwell left a group of girls with which she had been hob-nobbing and hurried down the aisle. "Come over here, you dear thing. We've been looking our eyes out for you." She stopped short and stared hard at Mary. "Why, I thought – " she began.
"You thought it was Connie, didn't you?" laughed Marjorie. She introduced Mary to Susan.
"The girls over there thought you were Constance Stevens, too," smiled Susan, showing her dimples. "You see, Marjorie and Connie are inseparable, so, of course, we naturally mistook you for her. I never saw two girls look so much alike. If we have a fancy dress party this year you two can surely go as the Siamese Twins. Wouldn't that be great?"
Mary smiled perfunctorily. She had her own views in the matter, and they did not in the least coincide with Susan's.
A moment later they were hemmed in by an enthusiastic bevy of girls, each one trying to make herself heard above the others. Marjorie was besieged on all sides with eager inquiries. The girls had discovered, as she neared them, that her companion was not Constance Stevens. Marjorie, at once, did the honors and Mary found herself nodding in quick succession to half a dozen girls.
"You fooled us all for a minute, Miss Raymond," cried Muriel Harding.
"She didn't fool me," announced Jerry Macy, who had joined them just in time to hear Muriel's remark. "I knew she was coming, but I kept still because I wanted to see you girls stare."
"Look around the room, Marjorie," observed Irma Linton in a guarded tone. "Do you miss anyone? Not Constance. I wonder where she is?"
"I don't know." Marjorie's eyes took in the big room, then again sought the door. "She said she would meet me here this morning. Let me see. Do I miss anyone? Do you mean a girl in our class, Irma?"
Irma nodded.
Marjorie cast another quick look about her. "Why, no. Oh, now I know. You mean Mignon."
Again Irma nodded. Under cover of a burst of laughter from the others she murmured, "Mignon won't be with us this year. You will observe, if you look hard, that I'm not weeping over our loss."
Marjorie was silent for a moment. The past rode before her like a panorama, as the thought of the elfish-faced French girl and of how deeply she had caused both herself and Constance Stevens to suffer. Her pretty face hardened a trifle as she said, in a low voice, "I'm not sorry, either, Irma. But why won't she be in high school this year? Has she moved away from Sanford? I haven't seen her since we came home from the beach."
"She has gone away to boarding school," answered Irma. "Between you and me, I think she was ashamed to come back here this year. Susan told me that her father wanted her to stay in high school and go to college, but she teased and teased to go away to school, so finally he said she might. She left here over two weeks ago. One of the girls received a letter from her last week. In it she said she was so glad she didn't have to go to a common high school and that the girls in her school
