Loe raamatut: «Marjorie Dean, High School Junior», lehekülg 2
“What a sad story.” Constance Stevens’ blue eyes were soft with sympathy.
“That makes Miss Merton seem like a different person, doesn’t it?” Marjorie thoughtfully knitted her brows.
“I suppose that is why she acts as though she hated young people,” offered Mary. “We probably remind her of her cheated youth.”
“She should have been particular enough to let that stupid ensign know that she was she,” criticized practical Jerry. “I’m glad I haven’t a sister. There’s no danger of any future aspirant for my hand and heart getting me mixed with Hal.”
The sentimental shadow cast upon the group by Irma’s romantic tale disappeared in a gale of laughter.
“Honestly, Jerry Macy, you haven’t the least idea of romance,” giggled Susan. “Here Irma tells us a real love story and you spoil it all about a minute afterward.”
“Can’t help it,” asserted Jerry stoutly. “I have to say what I think.”
“Oh, here come Captain and Charlie,” cried Marjorie, sighting a gracious figure in white descending the steps with Charlie in tow. “That means dinner is about to be served, children. Our farewell feast to Lieutenant Mary Raymond.”
CHAPTER III – THE SHIELD OF VALOR
A chorus of ohs and ahs ascended as the guests filed into a dining room, the decoration of which spelled Patriotism in large capitals. In honor of the pretty soldier play to which she and Mary had so long clung, Marjorie had decreed that the dinner should be a patriotic affair so far as decorations went. The walls of the large, attractive room were plentifully festooned with red, white and blue bunting. Flags were in evidence everywhere. From the center of the large oak table a large doll dressed as Uncle Sam held gallantly aloft the tri-colored ribbons that extended to each place. On one side of him stood a smaller doll dressed in the khaki uniform of the United States soldier. On the other, a valiant Jackie stood guard. At each cover was a small soldier doll and the place cards were tiny, folded, silk flags, each guest’s name written in one of the stripes of white uppermost.
Mary occupied the seat of honor at the head of the table, with Marjorie at her right and Constance at her left. But at the departing Lieutenant’s place rose an amazing pile of tissue-paper wrapped, beribboned bundles that smacked of Christmas.
“Company, attention,” called Mrs. Dean from the foot of the table, the instant the party had seated themselves. “Lieutenant Raymond, you are ordered to inspect your wealth before mess.”
“I – oh – ” stammered the abashed Lieutenant, regarding said “wealth” in stupefaction. “All those things are not really for me!”
“Open them and see,” directed Marjorie, her face radiant with unselfish happiness. “Every one of them holds an original poetic message. None of us knows what the other wrote. You are to read them in a loud voice and satisfy our curiosity. Now hurry up and begin.”
Under a battery of smiling faces, Mary slowly undid a good-sized square bundle. With slightly shaking fingers she drew forth a white box. When opened it displayed several sizes of note paper and envelopes bearing her monogram in silver. Picking up a card she steadied her voice and read:
“You say, of course, ‘I’ll surely write,’
But when you’ve traveled out of sight,
This nice white box may then remind you
Of Jerry Macy, far behind you.”
“I truly will write you, Jerry. Thank you.” Mary beamed affectionately on the stout girl. “It’s a lovely present, and my own monogram, too.”
“See that you do,” nodded Jerry gruffly. She loved to give, but she did not relish being thanked.
“Next,” smilingly ordered Marjorie. “If you don’t hurry and open them, we shall all starve.”
The next package disclosed a dainty little leather combination purse and vanity case from Muriel Harding with the succinct advice:
“Don’t lose your ticket or your money,
To be stone broke is far from funny.
When wicked cinders seek your eye,
Consult your mirror on the sly.”
After Muriel had been thanked and her practical, poetic advice lauded, Mary went on with her delightful investigation. An oblong bundle turned out to be a box of nut chocolates from Susan, who offered:
“In time of homesick tribulation,
Turn to this toothsome consolation.
To eat it up will be amusin’ —
Here’s sweet farewell from giggling Susan.”
“Giggling Susan’s” effort brought forth a ripple of giggles from all sides.
“That’s my present,” squealed Charlie, as Mary fingered a tiny package ornamented with a huge red bow. “It’s a – ”
“Shh!” warned Constance, placing prompt fingers on the too-willing lips.
Mary cast the child a tender glance as she glimpsed a tiny leather violin case, partially obscured by a card. In this instance it was Uncle John Roland who had played poet, after receiving Charlie’s somewhat garbled instructions regarding the sentiment.
“Say it s’loud as you can,” commanded the excited youngster.
Mary complied, reading in a purposely loud tone that must have been intensely gratifying to the diminutive giver:
“Once when away from home I ranned
To play my fiddle in the band,
You comed and finded me, ’n then
I never ranned away again.
So now I’m always nice and good
An’ do as Connie says I should,
And ’cause you’re going to run away
You’d better write to me some day!
Inside the little fiddle box
There is a fountain pen that talks
On paper – it’s for you from me,
The great musishun; your friend, C.”
As Mary read the last line she slipped from her place to Charlie and kissed the gleeful, upturned face. “You darling boy,” she quavered. “Mary won’t forget to write.”
“Mine’s the best of all,” observed Charlie with modest frankness, as he enthusiastically returned the kiss.
Back in her place again, Mary finished the affectionate inspection of the tokens her friends had taken so much pleasure in giving. There was a book from Harriet, a folded metal drinking cup in a leather case from Esther Lind, a hand-embroidered pin and needle case from Irma, a pair of soft, dark-blue leather slippers from Constance, and a wonderful Japanese silk kimono from Mrs. Dean. The remembrances had all been selected as first aids to Mary during her long journey across the country. With each one went a humorous verse, composed with more or less effort on the part of the givers.
But one package now remained to be opened. Its diminutive size and shape hinted that it might have come from the jeweler’s. Mary knew it to be Marjorie’s farewell token to her. She would have liked to examine it in private. She was almost sure that she was going to cry. She thrust back the inclination, however, flashing a tender, wavering smile at her chum as she untied the silver cord that bound the box. It bore the name of a Sanford jeweler and when the lid was off revealed a round, gold monogrammed locket, gleaming dully against its pale blue silk bed. In a tiny circular groove of the box was a fine-grained gold chain.
Mary’s changeful face registered many emotions as she took the locket in her hands and stared at it in silence. Acting on a swift, overwhelming impulse she sprang mutely from her chair and rushed out of the room. Marjorie half rose from her place, then sat down again. “Lieutenant will come back soon,” she said fondly. “She hasn’t really deserted from the army, she’s only taken a tiny leave of absence. I remember just how I felt when some of the boys and girls of Franklin High gave me a surprise party. That was the night this came to me.” She patted the butterfly pin that had figured so prominently in her freshman year at Sanford. “I almost cried like a baby. I remember that the whole table blurred while Mary was making a speech to me about my beautiful pin.” Marjorie talked on with the kindly object of centering the guests’ attention on herself until Mary should return.
Meanwhile, in the living room Mary Raymond was engaged in the double task of trying to suppress her tears and open the locket at the same time. Her eyes brimming, she worked at the refractory gold catch with insistent fingers. Opened at last, she beheld Marjorie’s lovely face smiling out at her. On the inside of the upper half of the locket was engraved, “Mary from Marjorie.” Below was the beautiful Spanish phrase, “Para siempre,” literally translated, “for always,” but meaning “forever.”
Within a brief space of time, following her flight, the runaway reappeared, her eyelids slightly pink. “I hope you will all pardon me,” she apologized prettily. “I – I – couldn’t help it. You’ve been so sweet to me. I can’t ever thank you as you deserve to be thanked for giving me so many lovely things; the very ones I shall need most when I’m traveling. I am sure you must know how dear you all are to me; dearer even than my Franklin High friends. I hope each one of you will write to me. I’ll truly try hard not only to be a good correspondent, but always to be worthy of your friendship.”
Mary’s earnest words met ready responses of good fellowship from those whom she had once scorned. Everything was so different now. The new Mary Raymond was an entire opposite to the sullen-faced young person who had once flouted all overtures of friendship on the part of Marjorie’s particular cronies. Beyond an eloquent hand clasp and, “My picture locket is wonderful, Lieutenant. Thank you over and over,” Mary had reserved further expression of her appreciation until the two chums should be entirely by themselves.
The delightful dinner ended with a general distribution of fancy cracker bon-bons, which the guests snapped open with a will, to find cunning caps representing the flags of various nations. They donned these with alacrity and trooped into the living room for an evening of stunts in which music played an important part. Constance lifted up her exquisite voice untiringly, weaving her magic spell about her eager listeners. Jerry sang a comic song, mostly off the key, merely to prove the impossibility of her vocal powers. Charlie Stevens, who had trustfully tugged his faithful fiddle along, insisted on rendering a solo of anguishing shrieks and squawks, assuming the majestic mien of a virtuoso. He took himself so seriously that no one dared laugh, although the desire to do so was throttled with difficulty. Susan was prevailed upon to perform a scarf dance, her one accomplishment, using a strip of red, white and blue bunting with graceful effect. Harriet Delaney also sang a ballad, and Esther Lind offered a beautiful Swedish folk song she had learned from her father, who had sung it as a boy in far-off Scandinavia. When the small repertoire of soloists had been exhausted, everyone turned to with Constance at the piano, and made the living room ring with school songs.
Just before the farewell party broke up the door bell rang. Its loud, insistent peal brought a significant exchange of glances, in which Mary alone did not share. Mrs. Dean hurried into the hall. A moment and she returned to the living room, escorting Delia, whose broad, homely face was wreathed in smiles. She advanced toward Mary, holding out a goodly sheaf of letters. “Special delivery, Miss Mary,” she announced. “May yez have many of the same.” She made a little bobbing bow as Mary took them, bestowed a friendly grin on the company and waddled out.
“I don’t understand.” Mary seemed overcome by this fresh surprise. “Are they all for me?”
“They’re your railway comforts, Lieutenant,” laughed Marjorie. “There’s a letter from each of us. You can read one a day. There are enough to reach to Denver and a few thrown in to cure the blues after you get there. So you see we won’t let you forget us.”
“It’s the nicest reminder I could possibly have. I don’t need a single thing to make me remember you, though. You’re all here in my heart to stay as long as I live.” Mary had never appeared more sweetly appealing than she now looked, as her clear tones voiced her inner sentiments.
“You’re a nice girl,” approved Charlie Stevens. “If I ever grow to be’s tall’s you, Mary Raymond, I’ll be married to you and you can play in the band, too. Uncle John’ll buy you a fiddle.”
This calm disposal of Mary’s future drove sentiment to the winds. Unconsciously, little Charlie had sounded a merry note just in time to lift the pall which is always bound to hang over a company devoted to the saying of farewells.
At eleven o’clock Mary and Marjorie accompanied their guests to the gate, the latter avowing their intention to be at the station the following morning to see Mary off on her journey. The two girls strolled back to the house, under the stars, their arms entwined about each other’s waists.
“We had a beautiful evening, Lieutenant. How I wish General could have been here. I hate to go away without saying good-bye to him,” sighed Mary.
“I’m sorry, too. I wish he could always be at home. He has to be away from Sanford and home so much.” Marjorie echoed Mary’s sigh. Brightening, she said: “I’ve another dear surprise for you, though. Come up to my house and I’ll give it to you. It’s his farewell message. He wanted you to have it the very last thing to-night.”
“We are going upstairs, Captain,” called Mary, as they passed through the living room. “Want to come?”
“Later,” returned Mrs. Dean. She was too good a commander to intrude upon the last precious moments of confidence her little army still had left to them.
Marjorie marched Mary to the pink and white window seat and playfully ordered, “Sit down and fold your hands like a nice, obedient lieutenant. Shut your eyes and don’t open them until I say so.”
Tripping gleefully to the chiffonier she opened the top drawer, bringing forth a small package and a square white envelope. Tucking them into Mary’s folded hands she said, “First you may open your eyes; then you must open your presents. I haven’t the least idea what’s in the package or what the letter says. General mailed them to me from Boston.”
Two pairs of eyes, bright with affectionate curiosity, bent themselves eagerly on the little quaintly enameled box, which Mary hastily unwrapped. “Oh!” was the concerted exclamation. On a white satin pad lay an exquisitely dainty gold pin. It was in the form of a shield. Across the top winked three small jewels set in a row, a ruby, a diamond and a sapphire.
“‘Three cheers for the red, white and blue,’” sang Marjorie, dropping down beside Mary and hugging her enthusiastically. “Do read the letter, Lieutenant. We’ll rave about this cunning pin afterward. Oh, I forgot. Perhaps General didn’t mean me to know what he wrote.”
“Of course he did,” flung back Mary loyally. “We’ll read it together.” Tearing open the envelope, she unfolded the letter and read aloud:
“Beloved Lieutenant:
“You are going away to a far country on a long hike, and, as it is the duty of every good general to look to the welfare of his soldiers, I am sending you the magic Shield of Valor to protect you in time of need. It is a token of honor for a brave lieutenant who fought a memorable battle and won the victory against heavy odds. It is a magic shield, in that it offers protection only to the soldier who has met and worsted the giant, Self. It was wrought from the priceless metal of Golden Deeds and set with the eyes of Endurance, Truth and Constancy. No enemy, however deadly, can prevail against it. It is a talisman, the wearing of which must bring Honor and Peace.
“Dear little comrade, may happiness visit you in your new barracks. Let the bugle call ‘On duty’ find you marching head up, colors flying, until ‘Taps’ sounds at the close of each busy day. Though you have answered the call to a new post, your general hopes with all his heart that you will some day hurry back to your regiment in Sanford to receive the sword of captaincy and the enthusiastic welcome of your brother officers. May all good go with you.
“Loyally,"General Dean.”
Mary’s voice trailed away into a silence that outrivaled mere speech. The two girls sat staring at the jeweled token before them as though fearing to break the spell their general’s message had evoked.
“Isn’t it queer?” came from Mary, “I don’t feel a bit like crying. When all the nice things happened to me downstairs I wanted to cry. But this letter and my wonderful Shield of Valor make me feel different; as though I’d like to march out and conquer the world!”
Marjorie’s red lips curved into a tender smile as she took the pin from the box and fastened it in the folds of lace where Mary’s gown fell away at the throat. “That’s because it is a true talisman,” she reminded softly. “We never knew when long ago we played being soldiers just for fun that we were only getting ready to be soldiers in earnest.”
CHAPTER IV – THE NEW SECRETARY
“I’m ready to go to school, Captain!” Marjorie Dean popped her curly head into the living room. “Is the note ready, too? It’s simply dear in you to give me a chance to call on Miss Archer.”
“Just a moment.” Mrs. Dean hastily addressed an envelope and slipped into it the note she had just finished writing. “I could mail it, I suppose, but I thought you might like to play special messenger,” she observed, handing Marjorie the note.
“It was a glorious thought,” laughed Marjorie. “I wanted to see Miss Archer yesterday, but I didn’t like to go to her office on the very first day without a good excuse. Do I look nice, Captain?” she inquired archly.
“You know you do, vain child.” Mrs. Dean surveyed the dainty figure of her daughter with pardonable pride. “That quaint flowered organdie frock exactly suits you. Now salute your captain and hurry along. I don’t care to have you tardy on my account.”
Marjorie embraced her mother in her usual tempestuous fashion and went skipping out of the house and down the stone walk with the joyous abandon of a little girl. Once the gate had swung behind her she dropped into a more decorous gait as she hurried along the wide, shady street toward school. “Oh, goodness!” she murmured. When within two blocks of the high school building she glimpsed the City Hall clock. Its huge, black hands pointed to five minutes to nine. “I’ll have to run for it,” was her dismayed reflection. “If I hurry, I can make it. I won’t have time to put my hat in my new junior locker, though.”
Decorum now discarded, Marjorie set off on a brisk run that brought her into the locker room at precisely one minute to nine. Hastily depositing her dainty rose-trimmed leghorn on a convenient window ledge, she ran up the basement stairs to the study hall, gaining the seat assigned to her the previous day just as the nine o’clock bell clanged forth its warning. She smiled rather contemptuously as she noted the disapproving glance Miss Merton flung in her direction. She had escaped a scolding by virtue of a few brief seconds.
“She hasn’t changed a bit,” was Marjorie’s inward judgment, as she turned her gaze upon the rows of students; called together again to continue their earnest march along the road of education. Her heart thrilled with pride as she noted how few vacant seats the great study hall held. The freshman class was unusually large. She noticed there were a number of girls she had never before seen. It looked, too, as though none of last year’s freshmen had dropped out of school. As for the juniors, they were all present, even to Mignon La Salle. But how decidedly grown-up the French girl looked! Her black curls were arranged in an ultra-fashionable knot at the back of her head that made her appear several years older than she really was. Her gown, too, an elaborate affair of sage green pongee, with wide bands of heavy insertion, added to her years. She looked very little like a school girl Marjorie thought.
Lost in contemplation of the new Mignon, she was rudely reminded of the fact that she was staring by Mignon herself. Their eyes meeting, Mignon made a face at Marjorie by way of expressing her candid opinion of the girl she disliked. Marjorie colored and hastily looked away, amused rather than angry at this display of childishness. It hardly accorded with her grown-up air. She had not realized that she had been guilty of staring. Her mind was intent on trying to recall something she had heard in connection with the French girl that now eluded her memory. Shrugging her shoulders she dismissed it as a matter of small consequence.
As the members of the four classes were still vacillating between which subjects to take up and which to exclude from their programs of study, classes that morning were to mean a mere business of assembling in the various recitation rooms, there to receive the first instructions from the special teachers before settling down to the usual routine of lessons.
For her junior program, Marjorie had decided upon third year French, English Literature, Cæsar’s Commentaries and civil government. As she had recently begun piano lessons, she had wisely concluded that, with piano practice, four subjects would keep her sufficiently busy. Her interest in music had developed as a result of her association with Constance Stevens. She yearned to be able some day to accompany Constance’s beautiful voice on the piano. Mrs. Dean had long deplored the fact that Marjorie was not interested in becoming at least a fair pianist. Herself a musician of considerable skill, she believed it a necessary accomplishment for girls and was delighted when Marjorie had announced that she wished to begin lessons on the piano.
By reciting English literature during the first period of the morning and French the second, the last period before noon was hers for study. Civil government and Cæsar recitations the first two periods of the afternoon left her the last hour of that session free. She had always tried to arrange her subjects to gain that coveted afternoon period, and now she felt especially pleased at being able to also reserve the last period of the morning for study.
It was while she sat in her old place in French class, listening to the obsequiously polite adjurations of Professor Fontaine, that she remembered the still undelivered note from her mother to Miss Archer. “I’m a faithless messenger,” was her rueful thought. “I’ll hurry to Miss Archer’s office with Captain’s note the minute class is over.” Contritely patting a fold of her lace-trimmed blouse where she had tucked the letter for safe-keeping, Marjorie gave strict attention to the earnestly-exhorting instructor.
“Eet ees een thees class that we shall read the great works of the incomparable French awthors,” he announced with an impressive roll of r’s. “Eet ees of a truth necessary that you should become familiar weeth them. You moost, therefore, stoody your lessons and be thus always preepaired. Eet ees sad when my pupeels come to me with so many fleemsy excuses. Thees year I shall nevaire accept them. I most eenseest that you preepaire each day the lesson for the next.”
Marjorie smiled to herself. The long-suffering professor was forever preaching a preparedness, which it never fell to his lot to see diligently practised by the majority of his pupils. Personally, she could not be classed among the guilty. Her love of the musical language kept her interest in it unflagging, thereby making her one of the professor’s most dependable props.
The recitation over, she paused to greet the odd little man, who received her with delight, warmly shaking her hand. “Eet ees a grand plaisir thus to see you again, Mees Marjorie,” he declared. “Ah, I am assured that you at least weel nevaire say ‘oonpreepaired.’”
“I’ll try not to. I’m ever so glad to see you, too, Professor Fontaine.” After a brief exchange of pleasantries she left the class room a trifle hurriedly and set off to call on Miss Archer.
Entering the spacious living room office, she was forcibly reminded that Marcia Arnold’s high school days had ended on the previous June. The pretty room was quite deserted. Marjorie sighed as she glanced toward the vacant chair, drawn under the closed desk that had been Marcia’s. How much she would miss her old friend. Since that day long past on which they had come to an understanding, she and Marcia had found much in common. Marjorie sighed regretfully, wondering who Miss Archer’s next secretary would be.
As there was no one about to announce her, she walked slowly toward the half-closed door of the inner office. Pausing just outside, she peeped in. Her eyes widened with surprise as she caught sight of an unfamiliar figure. A tall, very attractive young woman stood before the principal’s desk, busily engaged in the perusal of a printed sheet of paper which she held in her hand. It looked as though Miss Archer had already secured someone in Marcia’s place.
“May I come in, please?” Marjorie asked sweetly, halting in the doorway.
The girl at the desk uttered a faint exclamation. The paper she held fluttered to the desk. A wave of color dyed her exquisitely tinted skin as she turned a pair of large, startled, black eyes upon the intruder. For a second the two girls eyed each other steadily. Marjorie conceived a curious impression that she had seen this stranger before, yet it was too vague to convey to her the slightest knowledge of the other’s identity.
“You are Miss Archer’s new secretary, are you not?” she asked frankly. “You can tell me, perhaps, where to find her. I have a note to deliver to her personally.”
A quick shade of relief crossed the other girl’s suddenly flushing face. Smiling in self-possessed fashion, she said, “Miss Archer will not be back directly. I cannot tell you when she will return.”
“I think I’ll wait here for her,” decided Marjorie. “I have no recitation this period.”
The stranger’s arched brows arched themselves a trifle higher. “As you please,” she returned indifferently. She again turned her attention to the papers on the desk.
Seating herself on the wide oak bench, Marjorie took speculative stock of the new secretary. “What a stunning girl,” was her mental opinion. “She’s dressed rather too well for a secretary, though,” flashed across her as she noted the smart gown of white china silk, the very cut of which pointed to the work of a high-priced modiste. “I suppose she’s getting examination papers ready for the new pupils. I wonder why she doesn’t sit down.”
As she thus continued to cogitate regarding the stranger, the girl frowned deeply at another paper she had picked up and swung suddenly about. “Are you just entering high school?” she asked with direct abruptness.
“Oh, no.” Marjorie smilingly shook her head. “I am a junior.”
“Are you?” The stranger again lost herself in puzzled contemplation of the paper. Hearing an approaching footfall she made a quick move toward the center of the office, raising her eyes sharply to greet a girl who had come in quest of Miss Archer. Promptly disposing of the seeker, she returned to her task. Several times after that she was interrupted by the entrance of various students, whom she received coolly and dismissed with, “Not here. I don’t know when Miss Archer will return.” Marjorie noted idly that with every fresh arrival, the young woman continued to move well away from the desk.
Marjorie watched her in fascination. She was undoubtedly beautiful in a strangely bold fashion, but apparently very cold and self-centered. She had received the students who had entered the office with a brusqueness that bordered on discourtesy. Two or three of them, whom Marjorie knew, had greeted her in friendly fashion, at the same time mutely questioning with uplifted brows as to whom this stranger might be.
“This problem in quadratic equations is a terror,” the girl at the desk suddenly remarked, her finger pointing to a row of algebraic symbols on the paper she was still clutching. “Algebra’s awfully hard, isn’t it?”
“I always liked it,” returned Marjorie, glad of a chance to break the silence. “What is the problem?”
“Come here,” ordered the other girl. “I don’t call that an easy problem. Do you?”
Marjorie rose and approached the desk. The stranger handed her the paper, indexing the vexatious problem.
“Oh, that’s not so very hard,” was Marjorie’s light response.
“Can you work it out?” came the short inquiry, a note of suppressed eagerness in the questioner’s voice.
“Why, I suppose so. Can’t you?”
“I was trying it before you came in just for fun. I’ve forgotten my algebra, I guess. I don’t believe I got the right result. It’s rather good practice to review, isn’t it?”
“She must be a senior,” sprang to Marjorie’s mind. Aloud, she agreed that it was. “I ought not to have forgotten my algebra,” she added. “It’s only a year since I finished it.”
“See if you think I did this right, will you? I’m curious to know.” The stranger thrust into her hand a second paper, covered with figures.
Marjorie inspected it, feeling only mildly interested. “No; you made a mistake here. It goes this way. Have you a pencil?”
The pencil promptly forthcoming, the obliging junior seated herself at a nearby table and diligently went to work. So busy was she that she failed to note the covert glances which her companion sent now and then toward the door. But, during the brief space of time in which Marjorie was engaged with the difficult equation, no one came. Altogether she had not been in the office longer than fifteen minutes. To her it seemed at least half an hour.
“Here you are.” She tendered the finished work to the other girl, who seized it eagerly with a brief, “Thank you. I can see where I made my mistake when I have time to compare the two.” With a smile, which Marjorie thought a trifle patronizing, she carelessly nodded her gratitude. Laying the printed examination sheet on a pile of similar papers, she placed a weight upon them and walked gracefully from the office, taking with her the two sheets of paper, bearing the results of her own and Marjorie’s labor.
Another fifteen minutes went by. Still no one came, except a student or two in quest of Miss Archer. Marjorie decided that she would wait no longer. She would come back again that afternoon, before the second session opened. It was almost noon. Were she to return to the study hall just then, it meant to court the caustic rebuke of Miss Merton. The locker room offered her a temporary refuge. Accordingly, she wended her steps toward it.
