Miss O'Day's face grew crimson. Elizabeth, too embarrassed to respond,
remained silent. Miss Wilson arose to the occasion, changing the subject
with the question, "When is Miss Kronenberg going back?"

"Not until Monday," replied Landis, who was rarely embarrassed. These two,
with the assistance of Mame Welch and Carrie Hirsch, diverted the
attention from Miss O'Day.

"I do not German lessons take. Fraulein is not my instructor."

"Well, she is mine," responded Mary Wilson with a sigh. "As in a dream I
hear her say, 'Fraulein Wilson, you have it unright.' I've taken lessons
from her for three years, and that is the only remark she has ever made to
me."

"She will be giving examinations soon," said Mame. "The Seniors and
Middlers finish her work fully a week before the midwinter holiday. It
gives us time to cram on something else. It won't be long now."

"Last year, indeed for several years, she has asked the class to write in
German a description of a walk in the woods, or our Christmas at home, or
what our college life has done for us. It is always the same. She lets you
choose one of the three, but you must write a certain amount before she
will accept it."

"Landis and I are ready for it," began Min Kean placidly. "We have ours
written ready for her. I took a 'Walk in the Woods,' for my subject. I did
want to take 'What Exeter has Done for Me,' but Landis persuaded me out of
it. Of course, she was right about it. No one expects me to write on
subjects as deep as Landis. We have ours all finished and ready."

"Nonsense, Min," cried her roommate. "One would think to hear you talk
that we were expecting to pony through. You know such an idea is the one
furthest from our minds. You leave such false impressions." Then turning
to the girls, she explained, "I knew Fraulein Kronenberg was in the habit
of asking for such work in the examinations, so I told Min there would be
no harm in our practicing at this work. It would be quite the same thing
as though we were reviewing our lessons. Of course, we had no intention of
handing them in." Landis always appeared several inches taller when she
sought to justify herself.

"The day we are free of German, that day will Miss Brosius put us to extra
work in elocution and oratory. If I read the stars right, I discovered a
play in the corner of her eye when I saw her last. She has already begun
to estimate each one of us, to see who will best serve her purpose. Anna
Cresswell is already doomed. She is always dragged in for the beautiful,
calm creature who doeth and thinketh no evil. I wonder why she is always
selected when I----"

"I suppose they know you'd overdo it," suggested Azzie, lazily. "Thank
goodness, there are some things I escape by not being quick to learn my
part. They never tried me but once."

"But you always play. I'd rather any day get up and strut over the stage,
shrieking 'Is that a dagger that I see before me?' than sit down and keep
my fingers on the right keys," said Mame Welch.

"It is certainly wonderful how Azzie can play," said Min. "Every one seems
to enjoy it; but, do you know, just for myself, I like popular airs best?
Beethoven and Mozart may be fine, but I like the kind that the newsboys
whistle and all the hurdy-gurdies play."

"Wouldn't Mozart turn in his grave if he heard her?" asked Mame. "Speak to
her, Azzie. Reason with her. You are the only one who has artistic sense
enough to be shocked. Tell her to keep quiet, like the others of us do,
and pretend to revel in delight at Wagner."

"Will the Middlers be in it, too?" asked Elizabeth. Her heart failed at
the thought.

"Yes," said Mary, seeing that Elizabeth was really concerned at the
prospect of appearing in public. "Yes, they give the Middlers several
parts. You see, their idea is to get the Middlers used to public speaking
so that they will appear well when they are Seniors. All the experiences
or lessons Middlers ever get are given them in order to fit them to be
Seniors."

The lunch had been progressing during the chatter. A few drumsticks and
several slices of cake remained to show what had been. Elizabeth and Mary,
with true housewifely instinct, put away the remnants of the feast after
their guests had finished.

"How economical you are becoming!" said Mame Welch. "If I become hungry
to-morrow, I will visit while you are not here. If you miss anything, I
think you may give Landis the credit of taking it."

Landis shrugged her shoulders. "To see how careful they are, one would
think they never had much to eat before and don't expect much again. Now,
I'd throw the whole lot of it into the scrap-basket and let Jimmy Jordan
carry it off with the refuse. You bring to my mind that woman we met the
day we came back to Exeter. She was horrified because I didn't take what
was left of our lunch and run about offering it to some people who did not
have any with them. She went outside and shared hers with such a
common-looking woman and two dirty, crying babies."

"And me, too," said Elizabeth, not a whit abashed that she had been one of
the party which Landis saw fit to criticise.

"Oh, yes," was the reply, "But I suppose you were forced into it."

"I wasn't forced into it," Elizabeth replied. "Indeed, I was glad to go.
It was like a little picnic out there under the tree--"

"With two crying babies?"

"They did not cry after we went out. And the woman whom you laugh at was
very agreeable. The wait did not seem at all long. It was rather like a
pleasant party."

"Well, tastes differ," was the reply. "I am glad you enjoyed it. I'm sure
I should not. Come, Min, don't you think we had better pick our steps
back?"

"Walk as you please. The great Hokee Bokee Chief of the Night Hawks has
taken the scalp of the pale-faced scout," shouted Mary Wilson, jumping to
her feet and, seizing the false fronts, she waved them madly in the air
while she executed a war-dance.

"Give them back to Azzie," said Mame. "Sometime early to-morrow morning
you will find that the pale-faced scout is close on Azzie's trail."

Azzie took the trophies in her hand, examining them critically. "To-morrow
I intend to go in and call upon her. I know she'll have a towel bound
around her head."

The girls were about to depart when Mame Welch exclaimed, "There, I almost
forgot! Anna Cresswell has been invited down to Gleasonton to visit at the
Senator's. Mrs. Gleason is arranging quite a party of Exeter girls as soon
as they can have a free Saturday."

"Elizabeth and I were invited to-day," said Mary. "We were to let Mrs.
Gleason know what Saturday we would have free."

"They have fine times there--so they tell me," Azzie said. "I've never
been invited to see for myself."

"I do not know Mrs. Gleason personally," remarked Landis, "but we have the
same set of friends. No doubt if I should tell her that I'm Robert
Stoner's daughter, she'd out-do herself to be kind to me."

"Why," said Elizabeth guilelessly, "was she such a friend of your
father's?"

Landis shrugged her shoulders. "My father was a man of some prominence,"
was the response. "But how is it that she invited you? Did you not tell me
that you did not know her?"

"I don't. I have never so much as seen her."

"She's very philanthropic--always trying to help people who need it. I
suppose she knew you were a new student, and perhaps hadn't a wide
acquaintance here, so she invited you that you might not find life too
dull."

"Perhaps," was the reply, with a smile of amusement. Elizabeth was
learning a great deal, not less important that it lay outside of classes
and books.

The other girls had departed. Only Landis and Miss O'Day remained. Then
the former with a whispered "good-night" went tip-toeing down the hall.
Miss O'Day lingered.

Much to Elizabeth's surprise she bent her head to kiss her. "It was very
kind of you, Elizabeth, to ask me to come this evening. But the other
girls did not like it. Come to see me. You and I will grow chummy over my
tea-table. But you do not need to ask me again when you entertain. I will
not feel hurt. If you persist in being good to me, they will drop you and
you will find it very lonely."

"They may do as they see fit," she responded with determination. "I will
entertain whom I wish. If they do not choose to come, then they have the
alternative. Good-night! Don't worry about me, Miss O'Day. I'm learning to
take care of myself." Then she put up her lips to be kissed again.

The following morning the preceptress did not appear at breakfast, as
Azzie had predicted. The dinner hour, according to the custom for all
holidays, had been postponed until two o'clock. Devotional exercises were
held in the chapel at ten o'clock. Mrs. Schuyler's place on the rostrum
was vacant.

"She's been in her room all morning," giggled Min to Landis on their way
to their rooms.

"I hope Azzie will see the error of her ways before dinner time," Mary
Wilson said. "I should not like to miss a Thanksgiving dinner."

As though Mary's words had power to call her, Azzie at that moment came
down the corridor, swinging herself lazily along.

"This is the sixth time I've started for Mrs. Schuyler's room," she began
at the sight of the girls. "But the moment I reach the door, my heart
drops down into my shoes, and it's so heavy, I can't move my feet an
inch."

"Taking scalps is not all the fun it's supposed to be, is it?" asked Mame
Welch.

"The taking is all right. The taking _back_ is what hurts my feelings."
Azzie sighed deeply as she began to unwrap the paper about the false
fronts. "I don't know whether I'll have the courage to lay them inside her
door or not. I'd put it off until to-morrow if it wasn't for the
Thanksgiving dinner. Well, there's luck in odd numbers."

"To me there would be something too subtle, too sly, in slipping them in
at the door." The remark was from Landis.

As usual, Mary Wilson was the one quick to reply. "Then Azzie will not do
it if there be but a suspicion of subtleness about it. Do you not know her
well enough, Landis, to know when she is jesting and when she is not?"

"Oh, well, let us hope she was jesting then," was the reply.

The seventh venture had carried a charm for Azzie. Her heart did not go
thumping to her heels again. She knocked at Mrs. Schuyler's door and then
entered without waiting for permission.

"Good-morning, Mrs. Schuyler," she cried gayly. "I was sorry not to see
you down to breakfast, though to be honest I did not expect you. Did you
miss anything last evening after I was in? It was too good a chance--there
they were lying right under my eyes. I'll leave them here," laying the
budget on a table near her, "so you can come down to dinner."

Her manner was not that of one who merited or expected a rebuke. There was
such a big-hearted friendliness in her voice that Mrs. Schuyler's heart
responded. She smiled in spite of the feeling of vengeance she had been
cherishing against her tormentor. Before she could regain her austerity of
manner, Azzie had departed and was half way down the dormitory hall, on
her way to the music-room for an hour's practice before dinner.

Thanksgiving was not a day of unalloyed happiness to Elizabeth. The
afternoon's mail brought her letters and papers from Bitumen. Her father
wrote the home news with the same gaiety which marked his conversation. He
mentioned, as though it were a subject to be lightly treated, that there
was some talk of the miners "going out." He thought their grievance might
be adjusted without resorting to extreme measures--a week or so would
tell. Then he took up the little matters of the house.

The letter was remarkably cheerful. Yet Elizabeth was disturbed in spirit.
She had never lived through a strike; but she had heard the miners' wives
tell of the dreadful happenings. So far she thought only of the suffering
of the miners' families, with no money, starving and freezing in their
little shanties. She had never heard how the lives of the operators and
men in the position of her father hung in the balance at such times.

After reading the letter again, she mechanically took up the newspaper.
The black headlines heralding the coming strike were before her. She read
column after column hurriedly. The newspaper attached greater importance
to the rumors than her father. They recounted the horrors of strikes past,
and presaged them for strikes to come. No definite reasons had been given
for the miners going out. The article hinted that only the grossest
imposition of the operators had led them to consider a strike. The names
of two men appeared frequently--Dennis O'Day and Ratowsky--who were
opposed to each other. Strange to say, neither was a miner. Ratowsky could
influence the men because he was foreign-born, a Pole, as the majority of
them were. On the other hand, Dennis O'Day was a native American, a class
of which the foreign element is suspicious. Yet at his instigation the
miners had arisen.

The article caused Elizabeth some uneasiness. She looked forward to the
following day's paper, hoping it might contain a brighter outlook. But on
the next day when she went to the reading room, she failed to find the
papers. For many successive days the same thing occurred. Then at length,
she gave up looking for them. It was not until a month later that she
learned that they had disappeared at Dr. Morgan's suggestion, and the
girls were aiding her in keeping the worrisome news from Elizabeth.

The letters from home came at their usual times, but neither her father
nor mother mentioned the trouble at the mines. Elizabeth, believing that
no news was good news, took it for granted that the difficulty had been
amicably settled.

A week later, in company with Mary Wilson, she set forth to visit Mrs.
Gleason. From Exeter to Gleasonton is only an hour's ride. At the station,
they found a sleigh with a coachman and footman waiting to convey them to
Senator Gleason's home.

"It is the prettiest place in summer," said Mary, as they went flying over
the snow-packed roads. "Everything is so beautiful that you can really
believe it is fairyland."

On their way, they passed several stately country residences, closed for
the winter. Then came acres and acres of bark-sheds filled with bark for
the tanneries; then the tanneries themselves. Then, at a distance, upon
the brow of the hill were seen the stone walls of Senator Gleason's home.

"Isn't it beautiful?" whispered Elizabeth, as though should she speak
aloud the spell would be broken, and the place, like Aladdin's palace,
vanish in the air.

"Wait until you see it in summer, with all the vines and beautiful trees,"
was the response.

They turned into the driveway, and in a few minutes were brought to the
front entrance. At the sound of the bells, the door opened and Senator
Gleason appeared, smiling and affable, to welcome them, and following him
was his wife.

Elizabeth gave a start of surprise. Although more richly dressed than when
she had seen her before, Elizabeth recognized in her the plain little
woman with whom she had eaten lunch on her journey to Exeter.

CHAPTER VII.

DEFYING THE POWERS.

Both Fraulein Kronenberg and Dr. Kitchell announced tests for the week
before the Christmas holidays. The Seniors and Middlers arose early and
stayed up late to study. The hour for physical exercise was cut as short
as Miss Brosins would permit. There was little time for anything that was
purely social. There was no lingering in the hall after meals for chats.
Carrie Hirsch was the only one who had leisure after Miss Kronenberg's
announcement. She laughed as the girls hurried back to their rooms.
"German is not so hard," she explained. "What one thinks one must say--so
simple are the words. Not at all can I understand why they all look so
like a frown because Fraulein Kronenberg gives them but one little story
to write in the German."

"Suppose Miss Berard should give you a simple little story to write in
English," returned Mary Wilson. "Wouldn't you look like a frown, too?"

Miss Hirsch shrugged her shoulders. "It is true you speak; but English is
so different."

Elizabeth felt the excitement attendant upon an examination. Had she
paused long enough to analyse her feelings, she would have discovered that
she had no fear of failing. She had read German with Miss Hale since she
was old enough to read. The Middlers' work in German had been to her like
an old tale, oft repeated. But the attitude of the other students and the
novelty of an examination made her nervous. She was hurrying back to her
room one morning when Anna Cresswell stopped her.

"You have the next period vacant?" she asked.

"Yes, but Wednesday is the German exams and I have been putting in this
hour cramming for them."

"Then I'll do you a good turn by taking you away from them. Come, let us
take a turn up and down the campus. We'll walk fast enough to keep warm.
There is something about which I wish to talk to you."

Half-reluctantly, Elizabeth went with her.

"I feel as though I had been neglecting my work in regard to you," began
Miss Cresswell, as they crossed the campus. She tucked Elizabeth's arm
under her own. Elizabeth felt that something confidential was forthcoming.
She was yet unused to the friendship of girls and any act on their part
out of the ordinary made her feel shy and awkward.

"But you were with Mary Wilson, so I knew you were in good hands, although
I should have come to you at once. But we had so many new girls this
semester that I could not get around sooner. I'm president of the Young
Woman's Christian Association at Exeter, you know?"

"Yes; or at least, I suppose so. I have always attended with Mary. You
preside, so I took it for granted that you are president."

"It was the public meetings you attended. We have some private conferences
where no one is present but active members. We do this that we may talk
over the needs of some special student, and act accordingly. Of course, we
can not publicly diagnose such cases."

"Yes?" said Elizabeth, feeling that Miss Cresswell had paused to give her
an opportunity to reply.

"Part of our work is to interview each new student; to ask them to join us
in active Christian work. We need you in the Association and I believe you
will find, after you join us, that you have been needing us."

"Perhaps so. There can be no doubt of the latter, but as to helping you, I
am afraid I couldn't do that. Not that I am not willing, but I do not
believe I am capable of it."

"We'll risk that," with a smile. "I'm confident that you can do much. The
mere coming out and announcing yourself as a member of a band of Christian
workers will have a good influence."

"Perhaps it will. To be frank with you, Miss Cresswell, I've never thought
about such a thing. At home I studied a great deal, helped mother some,
and rode about the country hunting flowers with Miss Hale. I never gave a
thought to the matters that you talk of."

"Then you are not a Christian?" The question was asked in surprise.

The girl looked with a puzzled expression into the serious face of her
companion. Then she spoke slowly, as though the idea was for the first
time presented to her.

"I do not know. I--never--really thought anything at all about it. You see
it was just this way at home, Miss Cresswell. My father and mother with
Miss Hale were all the friends I had. We could not go to church; the
miners are foreigners, and when a priest was sent to them for services, he
spoke Polish, or Slav, or Russian, so there was little use of our going.
Miss Hale had a Mission Sabbath School for the younger people. I asked
once to help her. She refused for some reason. She did not tell me why. At
home, we read our Bible and have family prayers. Mother taught me a great
deal, and I committed a great deal to memory; but as to my being a
Christian, I never really thought of it before."

"Then let us think about it now," was the response. She drew Elizabeth's
arm closer within her own. Slowly they retraced their steps from the
dormitory door to the end of the campus walk, Miss Cresswell talking
earnestly all the while. She spoke well on her subject; she believed what
she said; and she was honest and simple-minded in her efforts to present
these truths to Elizabeth's mind.

The hour passed quickly. With a start of surprise, they heard the bells
for the dismissal of classes.

"Is it possible? I did not think the time was half gone. We must hurry.
You will think on this matter, Elizabeth?"

"Yes; I will think of it. I can't promise more. It seems so serious. I do
not wish to undertake anything without being sure of what I really think
and am."

They parted at the door, Miss Cresswell hurrying off to Dr. Kitchell's
class-room, while Elizabeth, with tardy step and disturbed mind, went to
recite to Miss Brosius.

The same evening Elizabeth accompanied her roommate to a special meeting
of the Young Woman's Christian Association. It had become a custom of the
school to hold such meetings before the tests began, but Elizabeth, not
knowing this, was wholly ignorant of the object of the meeting.

Miss Cresswell as president went through the preliminaries of calling the
Association to order. She was tactful and discreet. Landis, to whom public
speaking was a coveted opportunity, immediately arose and moved forward to
the front of the room where she could face her audience. She carried her
head and shoulders unusually erect. Her clear, decisive manner of speaking
indicated that she believed the mere stating of her opinion on the subject
would forever settle it in the minds of her hearers.

"I regret," she began, "to make such a statement before the new students
at Exeter lest they form a bad opinion of us in general. But at Exeter
Hall, as in other schools, all pupils do not have the same ideals and
views of what is right and wrong. It often happens, and has happened here
within our knowledge, that a student who would scorn to take any property
which was not hers, has taken another's ability, has actually copied work
and handed it in as her own. This has happened and may happen again. So
we," the speaker so placed her emphasis that "we" became the dominant
spirit of the school, "determined to do as we did last year,--call
together the members of the Association to take means to prevent a growth
of the spirit of deception."

Landis walked back to her place. Her manner had been forcible and had
impressed many.

The president asked for expressions of opinions from the members. The
remarks were not slow in coming. Immediately a half-dozen girls were upon
their feet demanding recognition.

Mame Welch in her droll, half-humorous way was the first to speak.

"I do not see why we should trouble ourselves because from one to a
half-dozen girls among several hundred see fit to copy and carry 'ponies'
into class. If they are satisfied, let them do it."

"But, oh," cried Carrie Hirsch, not waiting for permission to speak. "It
is not fair. It may be so, one girl must hard work; another girl, work not
hard. Yet one mark, oh, so high," she raised her hands to express how high
the grades of the delinquent might be, "because into exams she carry
papers, or from her friend's paper she learn all she wishes to write."

The other members could not suppress a smile as Carrie talked. She was so
entirely in earnest, so carried away by her own enthusiasm, and so badly
mixed in her English.

It was Landis who again responded. "That is not the spirit in which we
have undertaken this correction. To the real student it matters little who
may have higher marks than herself. She studies for the love of study and
the hope of improvement. Neither should we say that it is nothing to us
whether a half-dozen others are dishonest or not. It is something to
us--or it should be. We have banded ourselves together as a set of
Christian workers, and it should be something to us whether a half-dozen
among us are not doing the honorable thing." There was a war-like tone in
Landis' words. Whatever weakness there was in the girl's character, she
possessed an overwhelming desire to have people believe that she stood on
the side of right. She was ambitious to be thought an earnest Christian
girl. She would have left no stone unturned to have been a leader among
the girls. She was willing to cajole, to cater in order to win friendship.
Yet in spite of all her efforts, she influenced only a few. Among those
few were none of the stronger girls of Exeter. Min, to be sure, followed
close at her heels, and one or two others; but they were not of the
brighter lights from either an ethical or intellectual point of view.

"It is our duty to go to them--to talk to them," she continued.

"And have a hornet's nest buzzing about your ears," exclaimed Mary Wilson,
disregarding all the rules of Parliamentary law which Dr. Kitchell tried
to teach them. She was on her feet, moving to the front, talking as she
went. "I really haven't the self-assertion to walk up to strange students
and tell them the error of their ways. To me, that course of action savors
too much of conceit of our own virtues. The best we can do is to be
perfectly honorable about the examinations. Our mental attitude toward
dishonorable proceedings ought to have its influence without our going
about making ourselves odious by preaching."

Someone else took up the discussion. It grew warmer and warmer. Landis
maintained the position she took in regard to personal work. In the
excitement, several talked at once, forgetting that there was a chairman
to whom a certain courtesy was due. Miss Cresswell used the gavel until
its sound drowned out the voices. For a time peace reigned again.

During the discussion, Elizabeth leaned forward. This was intensely
interesting to her. Her lips were parted, and a flush caused by excitement
came to her cheeks. She looked with admiration upon those girls who could
talk in public. In her eyes they were gifted creatures more richly blessed
than the ordinary mortal like herself. Hitherto she had been fond of
spunky little Mary Wilson. Now she admired and looked up to her as one
must look up to a person of talents.

Miss O'Day, dressed in a striking gown of imported material, sat by the
side of Elizabeth. She must have heard the discussion, yet she made no
show of interest, but seemed like one whose thoughts were far off.

Suddenly a sprightly little girl sprang up and made herself heard: "I
think we had a fairly good plan last year--the plan we copy from the old
Greeks--the plan of ostracising. Girls have copied and cheated in
examinations ever since examinations were known, and I suppose they will
do so as long as examinations are held. There are always a few whose bump
of moral responsibility isn't developed. I agree with one of the previous
speakers this far--let those half-dozen who desire to cheat, cheat. Let it
be nothing to us. But I would add this much more--let _them_ be also
nothing to us. Let us ostracise them entirely, cut them off from all
invitations."

At her words, the discussion grew warmer again. It was as though she had
let loose a swarm of bees. Parliamentary law went to the winds. For a
moment, every common courtesy seemed to be forgotten. Her suggestion met
with some favor. To the surprise of Elizabeth, Mary Wilson was its
strongest advocate. Landis now also favored such a course, and
consequently Min Kean. In her heart, Elizabeth disapproved, but she was
not able to speak as the others had done. She could only sit silent.
Popular opinion was in favor of the ostracism. Then another question was
brought up. Landis, again, was the one to set the ball rolling.

"But how are we to find out who does the cheating?" she asked. "If I
should see some member of my class make use of a "pony," am I expected to
cut her dead, while all the others are friendly with her as usual? I do
not see how she would be much affected by that, for she may care very
little whether I ignore her or not."

At this Landis sat down but she bent forward and spoke to Min Kean. After
a little encouragement, Min arose. She was not quick to grasp ideas even
at her best. Now, as she stood upon her feet, she lost what little
confidence she possessed, stumbling over her words, looking helplessly
toward Landis for encouragement.

"We think--that is, I think--that wouldn't count much--I mean just having
one person ostracise you. I think it should be told--I mean if we found
anyone cheating, it should be told. Then we would get together and tell
that person why we are going to act toward them like we are going to act.
That's only fair. That's the way they treat criminals in court."

Then she retired to let Landis take her place. "The speaker has said in
part what I had in mind. I do not wish my hearers to believe I would
countenance news-carrying or tattling. That, of course, is beneath any
right-minded person. But we must--I say we _must_," Landis raised her
finger impressively, and repeated the words as though she intended at that
moment to root out the evil with tooth and nail, "We _must_ get rid of
this deceptive tendency. It will have an evil effect on Exeter. Perhaps,
in time, destroy the school altogether."

"Umph! Exeter has stood a hundred years and will stand a hundred more in
spite of anything Landis may do," said Miss O'Day, in a low tone to
Elizabeth. This was the first she had spoken since they had entered the
meeting.

Landis continued, "For that reason, I think it would be wise if one sees
another cheating, to lay her name before the members and let them act
accordingly."

Elizabeth could never tell how it happened. Months after, in thinking the
matter over, she could not justify herself in the thought that she had
acted from honorable motives or for any good purpose. She had acted upon
the impulse of the moment. This last speech was opposed to all Elizabeth's
natural instincts. Her finer feelings were hurt, and like a child she must
cry out.

"The idea is preposterous," she exclaimed, getting upon her feet and
walking to the front of the room. Indignation had turned to crimson the
pink which enthusiasm had brought to her cheek. "No good ever comes of
using a wrong to make another wrong right. Like every one else, I think
there should be no dishonor in examinations. But to my mind, tale-bearing
is equally dishonorable. Consider the idea of our pledging ourselves to
run and tell every one else when we find that someone has done wrong. I
refuse to do such a thing even though I know it would stamp out every bit
of cheating in our examinations."

At this came a burst of applause, so that for the time Elizabeth was
forced to discontinue. She saw Mary Wilson's eyes beaming upon her. Not
another face could she distinguish. When the applause ceased, she began
again. It was evident she was thinking of nothing else but the injustice
and littleness of the act they had been contemplating. She felt deeply,
and talked as she felt. For a moment she was an orator worthy the name.

"For this ostracising, I have as little sympathy. A student does wrong,
and you would cut her off immediately from all who are trying to do right.
If your purpose is to assist those weaker than yourself, you will never
succeed by such a method. If every one was to be ignored for every bit of
deceit they practice, I fancy most of us would be going around by
ourselves, rather lonely." A smile passed over the faces of her hearers--a
smile of amusement and surprise, for hitherto Elizabeth had been a quiet,
shy girl, almost timid in company; and now upon the instant she had taken
the lead. She had come forth alone when all the odds were against her,
boldly declaring her opinion, and fearless to defend the course she
believed to be right.

"If we are going to begin this reformation, let us begin aright--at the
root of the evil, and carry it through all its branches. Let us begin with
the students who leave us under false impressions--telling us romances of
their adventures, their powerful friends, their finances." To do Elizabeth
justice, the girl with traits like these she mentioned had no definite
form in her mind. She was only supposing a case. Yet, unconsciously, her
mind had received during these months of school an idea of such a person.
She could not embody these qualities with a human form. Yet more than one
of her hearers recognized these as characteristics of one who had been
foremost in the denunciations of dishonest examinations. "Let us begin
with the girls who turn out their lights and go to bed long enough to
deceive Mrs. Schuyler, and then get up again to prowl--and to the girl who
gets a book from the town library and allows a dozen to read it before it
is returned, when she has pledged herself to withdraw the books for her
use alone.

"We, as a set of Christian girls"--the expression was new to Elizabeth,
but it does not take one long to become a Christian--"would ostracise any
who did not come up to our standard of ethics! I say here so that you may
all know where I stand"--her cheeks grew scarlet, and in the energy of her
emotions she emphasized strongly--"I will not declare the name of anyone
who 'ponies' in class, nor will I cut them from my list of acquaintances.
I shall let them know I despise such deception, but I shall treat them
exactly as I have always treated them."

With that she went back to her place. To her surprise Miss O'Day was not
there, having slipped away at the beginning of Elizabeth's talk.

The girls applauded heartily. Someone else arose to speak. Elizabeth's
enthusiasm having died suddenly away, she felt very limp and weak. She was
surprised at her own boldness.

"I'm going back to our room," she whispered to Mary Wilson. "I feel all
gone."

"Yes, I can sympathize with you. I felt just so the first time I got up
there. But you'll get over it and enjoy a scrap. I'll go with you. A cup
of cocoa will set you up all right."

Together they quitted the hall. As they crossed the campus, Mary
continued: "I was afraid you were going to get personal, and hurt someone
with your words; but you stopped just in time. One does not mind if the
whole set gets a slap in the face; but one does not like to be the only
one. It is just this way about the girls you meet at Exeter. We are like a
little town. There will be a few whom you will like well enough to be
genuine friends with; then there's a whole long line who will be pleasant
acquaintances; and some whom you will care nothing at all about, although
they will be good people in their way. Some here have opinions of their
own, and some are mere copies. A girl must learn to think for herself, and
express her opinion without getting angry or giving personal hits. The
moment that is done, Miss Cresswell will request the guilty one to leave
the room."

"Will they do it?"

"Do it? Haven't you learned that people generally do as Anna Cresswell
suggests? She's a very poor girl--too poor to come to Exeter. But her
influence over the younger set was so marked that they say Dr. Morgan
makes it worth her while to stay."

"What does she do? She seems very quiet."

"She is--and isn't. She's quiet when it's necessary to be. As to what she
does, if you keep your eyes open, you'll find her visiting the homesick
girls, introducing the shy ones, tutoring the backward ones."

"It is a wonder she did not call upon me earlier in the term then. I might
be classified under all three heads."

Mary tossed back her hair, and laughed. "But you had me, and when one has
me to look after her she does not need even Anna Cresswell."

"Especially when it comes to keeping rooms in order," added Elizabeth.

"You haven't forgiven me for that yet."

"Yes; I have--long ago."

"Well, you don't need disciplining now. You are growing so particular that
I'm almost ashamed of my own carelessness."

Elizabeth replied earnestly. "Well, with me, I must be decided one way or
the other. I think I am naturally careless. So I dare not give up to
myself even a little bit."

They entered their rooms as she was speaking.

"Just one cup of cocoa, and then we must get down to work. I'm afraid of
Dr. Kitchell's mathematics."

"I'm afraid of everything. I never took an examination of any kind."

"Dr. Kitchell is very fair; but he scares you to death weeks before. He is
always holding exams up before you like a death's head at the feast."

The decided stand taken by Elizabeth caused no little discussion. The
meeting adjourned without any definite action being taken. The only point
gained by the discussion was opening the eyes of a few to the fact that
their point of view might not be the only one. Many felt as Elizabeth. The
matter was dropped for the time.

The examinations began early in the morning, running through several class
periods. Elizabeth, provided with a motley array of examination
paraphernalia, entered Dr. Kitchell's class-room. The greater part of the
class was already present, as were Dr. Kitchell and Miss Brosius. Dr.
Kitchell was in the front of the room. Upon Elizabeth's entrance, with a
gesture of his hand, he waved her toward a seat in the middle row. It was
not her accustomed place of sitting. She looked about her. There seemed to
have been a general scattering. Each member of the class sat alone,
isolated so far as the size of the room permitted. The reason for this
Elizabeth did not understand, but attributed it to the eccentricities of
an examination of which she had heard much. The examination questions,
printed upon little slips, were handed to each student. Previously each
young lady had been cautioned about providing herself with all necessary
articles. Elizabeth had conscientiously heeded the caution. The top of her
desk had the appearance of a department of a small stationery store.

She began her work. Dr. Kitchell walked up and down the room, never once
turning his eyes from them. Miss Brosius rubbed her eye-glasses, and
seating herself at the end of the room, kept her gaze fixed upon the back
of the students' heads. Such scrutiny was not calculated to make one feel
at ease. For one hour no sound save the moving of pencils was heard. Then
Miss Brosius spoke. "I have a class the next period, Dr. Kitchell," she
said. "I can stay no longer."

"Miss Worden will be here in one moment to relieve you," was the reply.
"She has a physical geography class in Room C. It will not detain her
long."

Even as he spoke, Miss Worden, out of breath with her hurry, entered and
took Miss Brosius' place, while that instructor hurried off to her
class-room.

Elizabeth paused in her demonstration. Here was a problem new to her. Why
could not Miss Brosius leave until Miss Worden came in, and why did Dr.
Kitchell stride up and down, up and down, never for an instant removing
his keen eyes from the class before him?

In the daily intercourse with her parents, she had asked questions freely.
She did now as she would have done with them. As Dr. Kitchell passed her
desk, she spoke to him:

"I could not help hearing what Miss Brosius said to you about leaving the
room, and wondered what she meant."

"It is impossible for me to see all the students. Unfortunately, I do not
have eyes in the back of my head."

Elizabeth met his glance with a look of surprise.

Dr. Kitchell then spoke more plainly. "I am quite determined there shall
be no cheating in my classes. My students will pass on their own
merits--or not at all."

"And Miss Brosius then--" she paused, not feeling confident enough of the
situation to put her feelings into words.

"Miss Brosius is here to assist me, and to see there is no copying, no
cheating done in the class."

Now Dr. Kitchell was an excellent man, an able instructor, but he had a
blunt way of expressing himself. Elizabeth's face flushed and then grew
pale. For one instant her lips quivered and her eyes filled. But she
quickly controlled herself, and began putting together her papers.
Arising, she was about to quit the room.

"Have you finished, Miss Hobart?"

"No, I have not." Elizabeth spoke quietly. One could have no suspicion of
the fire that lay smoldering beneath.

"Finish and hand me the papers before you leave the room. That has always
been the rule at Exeter."

"I do not intend to finish, or to hand in my papers." Although she spoke
quietly, her voice was heard over the class-room. Each student paused with
uplifted pencil in her hand. For the most part, Dr. Kitchell was feared.
Few would have dared oppose him.

"And why not, may I ask?"

"Because I will not stay and take an examination where we are treated as
though we were criminals. Having a watch set upon us is an insult to every
honest student in the class. Until I have proved myself to be either a
liar or a thief, I insist upon being treated with respect. That is why I
will not stay to take an examination under police supervision."

Dr. Kitchell was a big man. Elizabeth looked so childish and little as she
stood before him that he could not suppress a smile. He rather admired the
spunky little lady who dared to express her opinion so freely. Yet
discipline must be maintained. "You will report to Dr. Morgan," he
replied.

"I certainly shall," was the rejoinder, as she quitted the room.

In this whirl of indignation and hurt pride, she entered her room and
found Mary there.

"I was coming for you, Elizabeth," she said. "Here's a telegram for you."
She held out the yellow envelope. "I hope there is nothing serious the
matter."

Elizabeth tore it open before Mary finished speaking, and read it
quickly.

"It's from father," she said. "I do not understand it." She handed the
paper to Mary. "You know I was to start for home Saturday morning."

Mary read it aloud:

"Do not start home. Letter follows. Every one well. Business reason for
waiting."

"Nothing to worry about in that. My father has often sent me just such
word. Perhaps business calls him away. You see he says every one is
well."

"And he would not say that unless it were absolutely true," said Elizabeth
with conviction.

"You'll have the letter by to-morrow's mail. It's something pleasant,
depend upon it."

"I hope so." She sank down despondently into a chair and rested her head
upon the study-table. "I wish something pleasant would happen. This is
'blue' week for me. Yesterday I became excited and almost said too much,
and to-day I rush madly in and mix up affairs in the math. exams. I told
Dr. Kitchell what I thought of his method of conducting them."

Mary's eyes grew bright. They fairly danced in surprise at Elizabeth's
action.

"Why, even I would not have dared do that," she said. "I have dared
everything at Exeter but Dr. Kitchell. I would as soon think of going to
Dr. Morgan and telling her that I do not approve of her method of
conducting Exeter."

"That is about what I will do next," said Elizabeth dolefully. "When one
begins anything like this, there is no telling where she will end. Oh,
dear, I'll be glad to get home where people know me, and don't act as
though they expect me to lie or steal."

"No one thinks that here, Elizabeth. You've run up against a snag. We all
have our blue days when we wish we were somewhere else, and when we have a
poor opinion of every one, ourselves included."

"You never do."

"Yes, often, but I found it didn't pay to give up to them. Come, tell me
all the trouble, and when it's all told you may find there's very little
of it."

"I wish I could think so. I'll tell you, Mary, and then I'll go and see
Dr. Morgan. I'm to report immediately to her."

She proceeded with her tale of woe. And although her listener was
sympathetic, she laughed heartily during the recital.

CHAPTER VIII.

MIDNIGHT CONFIDENCES.

On going to the office, Elizabeth found that Dr. Morgan had been called
unexpectedly to the city, and would not return for several days. She was
disappointed, as she much preferred having the thing over and done with
than hanging fire for several days. The girls crowded about her,
expressing both admiration and criticism and offering advice until
Elizabeth did not know whether she was a culprit or a heroine. The
maddening part of it was that she must wait three days to find out. Her
own opinion in regard to being "policed" into honesty had not changed. She
felt confident of the support of her father in the position she had taken.
She knew how, from the bottom of his heart, he abhorred any questioning of
one's honor. The more she listened to the talk of the other girls, the
more indignant she was at the insult.

She was not one to give expression to her feeling in words only. After her
remarks to Dr. Kitchell, the other girls did most of the talking while she
listened, turning the matter over in her mind. She had her father's way of
straightening matters out. "If a thing is wrong, make it right--if you
can," she had often heard him say to Joe Ratowsky. Her four months at
Exeter had taught her there were people of words and people of action. It
was of the last-named class she selected her helpers. Landis was not to be
considered. It is doubtful if she could have given a reason for the
feeling that she would be of no assistance in a reform movement. It was
merely intuition and could not be put into words. Min, too, who was but
the shadow of Landis, was to be barred. There was enough to begin
with--Anna Cresswell, Nancy Eckdahl, Mary Wilson, Mame Welch, Nora O'Day,
strange to say, and herself.

At the dinner table, Elizabeth passed the word around asking the girls to
come to her room immediately at the ringing of the study bell. Some of the
students were already packing to leave for the holidays; and after the
midwinter examinations, no strict observance was paid to study hours.

Miss Brosius heard the invitation and smiled. She was learning to know
Miss Hobart. After the experience of the morning, she felt these summonses
might be followed by a declaration of war. Her position in regard to
overseeing examinations was more distasteful to her than it could possibly
be to any of the students. But from time immemorial such had been the
custom of most schools. There must have been a reason for it. No doubt, it
had been forced upon the instructors by the attitude of the students
themselves. New conditions may have arisen, but the old law still held.

"There's something brewing," Miss Brosius said to Miss Watson as they
quitted the dining-hall. "If I read the stars aright, Exeter Hall will be
reformed before Dr. Morgan returns from the city."

"She comes to-morrow."

"Maybe. Reforms have started in less than twenty-four hours. The fuel has
been ready for several years, waiting for someone to apply the match."

"Who is doing that now?"

"Elizabeth Hobart, if I am not mistaken. Did you not notice the flash of
her eyes and the message she was passing about to have the girls meet in
her room?"

"Yes; but I thought it was nothing more than a taffy pull."

"It is a deep-laid plot to reform us all. I must give her credit in the
selection of her colleagues. She has picked those who will carry her plans
through if they once see fit to accept them. Oh, no, don't be alarmed," as
she noticed Miss Watson's expression, "there may come some good from it;
no evil at least, I'm sure. It may be a good thing to have them talk the
matter over." Then she related the events of the morning.

The girls did not know the reason for their being called together. Nora
O'Day, to Elizabeth's surprise, made no objections, Elizabeth having
explained fully that it was not a social but a purely business meeting.
Nora came in after the others had gathered. With a nod to them
collectively, she took her place before the grate.

Elizabeth stated the reason of the gathering. She related the scene of the
morning.

"You know I never was in an examination before," she said. "You have no
idea how it impressed me. To think of having two and three teachers in the
room to watch us! Why, it seemed to me it was the most insulting thing
possible."

"That is because it is new to you. It really was not meant that way," Miss
Cresswell explained. "But you must bear this in mind--school life is just
like outside life. There are some students who are dishonest. There's no
getting around that fact. And because of those few, we must all be put
under surveillance."

Elizabeth was not to be convinced. "I do not see why. I felt this morning
in class just as I would if I had gone into Dr. Morgan's room and she had
immediately locked up her jewelry and her purse. Surely, the teachers
themselves must have learned by this time who can be trusted and who can
not! Suppose among the fifty girls in our room this morning, there were
one or two who cheated. I think it would have been far better to allow
them to go their way than have treated us all like criminals. What great
difference would it make anyhow? They would be the only losers; and as to
being watched, how is that going to make them any better?"

Mary Wilson shook back her hair. Her eyes were beginning to flash. As
Elizabeth discussed the question, her enthusiasm grew.

"It makes them worse--far worse. If there is anything in the world that
would make me cheat it is being watched to see that I didn't. I'd do it
then just to prove that I could be sharper than they."

They talked the matter over thoroughly, each one, with the exception of
Nora O'Day, expressing herself freely. She sat silent; but her silence did
not spring from lack of interest. She listened keenly to every word, and
weighed it fully before she accepted it. Elizabeth wondered at her, for
she was not naturally quiet. The others understood, and did not ask for
her opinion.

Elizabeth had gained one point. The girls did not treat Miss O'Day with
that studied formality which is more galling than open neglect as they had
on former occasions. Mary, in particular, was quite agreeable, and Nora
herself more at ease.

Elizabeth had a plan for this reformation. She was not attempting the
impossible. Her idea was practical. Even Miss Cresswell declared it to be
wise.

"Will you be secretary, Miss Cresswell, and jot down our plan?" asked
Elizabeth.

She moved to the study-table, taking up a pencil and tablet ready for
work. "What have you decided to do about talking with the girls?" she
asked. "Will you call them all together and present this plan to them?"

"No; my idea was to interview each one by herself. It seems so much more
personal than talking to them all together. I think they will take it so;
I'm sure I should."

"Perhaps so. But it will mean a great deal of work."

"We will not object to the work," said Mary Wilson, "if we only succeed in
carrying out Elizabeth's idea."

The details were further discussed. Then they began to apportion a certain
section of the Hall for each girl to visit.

"We need not visit them all. Each new recruit will be put to work to get
other signers."

Anna Cresswell continued her writing. At last she spoke. "We will have
this run off on the typewriter. Listen. Is this just what you intend,
Elizabeth?" She read:

"We, the undersigned students of Exeter Hall, not being contented with the
present method of conducting examinations, believing that it casts
reflections upon the honor of each student, do hereby suggest a means of
reformation. We pledge ourselves individually to receive no assistance at
such times. Furthermore, we will quietly but firmly discountenance among
the students any methods not strictly honorable.

"We respectfully request Dr. Morgan to have examinations conducted
hereafter without the presence of instructors, we pledging ourselves that
under our supervision they will reflect credit both upon Exeter and the
students."

"You have done it beautifully. My father could not have done it better,"
said Elizabeth. "Now we must get the names of the best girls at Exeter."

"Don't have a name of one who does not mean to keep her pledge," advised
Miss Cresswell. "Fifty people in earnest are worth more than an hundred,
half of whom veer with the wind."

"But as Anna Cresswell said before," began Mary Wilson excitedly, "there
will be some who will cheat. What will we do?"

"Most of the girls will agree to this, and the majority can be depended
upon to do as they pledge themselves. If you keep your eyes open in the
class-room, you can soon discover who has no sense of honor. These may be
taken quietly aside and spoken to. If they transgress a second time, we
will make the affair public." This advice came from Miss Cresswell.

At the close of her speech, Mame Welch arose. "If we don't scatter soon,
the lights will be out, and I do not care to wander down the staircase in
the dark. I did it once, and I had a bump on my head for a week. One's
head is not the best 'lighting' place. Come, Carrie Hirsch, you go my way.
If the lights go out, we will fall together." Slipping her arm through
Carrie's, and bidding the others good-night, she quitted the room.

Miss Cresswell and Nancy followed, with cheery words to encourage Mary and
Elizabeth for to-morrow's work. Nora O'Day remained. She was quite a
striking figure as she stood leaning with her elbow against the mantel,
looking down into the grate. As always, she was richly dressed. Her loose
robe of crimson silk, her dark hair hanging in a single braid, and her
olive-tinted skin presented a glowing picture.

"I waited until the others left," she said, "to speak to you alone,
Elizabeth. I have been wishing to for several days, but you were so busy,
I didn't feel that I could take you from your work."

"You can talk together here. I am going into the bedroom," said Mary,
making ready to disappear.

"No; I do not wish to disturb you. I intended asking Elizabeth to walk to
the end of the hall with me. I love to sit on the window-seat at the
landing. The campus is beautiful in the moonlight. No one is disturbed by
the talking there. I think Mrs. Schuyler will not mind late hours
to-night, since we go home to-morrow. Will you come, Elizabeth?"

"Yes; wait one minute until I get a wrap. That window-seat is full of
drafts, I know. I have sat there before."

Taking down a golf cape, she wrapped it about her. "Come," she added,
drawing Miss O'Day's arm through her own. "We will be night-hawks until
Mrs. Schuyler finds us. Don't lock the door, Mary. I'll slip in later."

A delightfully broad window-seat filled with cushions was at the turn of
the stairway, where one had a view of the campus, now snow covered,
beautiful in the glimmer of the moonlight.

Arranging the cushions here to her satisfaction, Nora began the
conversation. "I heard you talk in the meeting yesterday, Elizabeth, and I
wish to thank you."

"Why thank me? I only said what I thought."

"Some girls might have done considerably less--to my knowledge some of
them have. You ran the risk of being unpopular, and yet you were willing
to take that risk because you were my friend. That is the kind of
friendship that is worth having. You do not know how pleased, how glad I
was! Why, I had not been so happy for months."

"Take the risk! Because I was your friend! Well, I must be awfully dense,
but really, Nora, I haven't the faintest idea what you are trying to
say."

"You say that to escape my thanks--my gratitude. That is just your way. I
might have expected as much. You do a generous, noble deed and then slip
away from the gratitude that follows."

"Well, it may be my way, and it may not. I do not know what you are
talking about. If I have done what you call a generous, noble deed, this
is the first I have heard of it. If your mind is still upon the speech I
made yesterday, you may be sure there was nothing noble about that. Why,
you have no idea how angry I was! It made me so indignant to hear some
explain what should be done and how. I didn't approve of their plans at
all, so the only thing left for me to do was to say what I thought about
it. It is news to me that being indignant and expressing yourself
rather--well, rather forcibly, is noble and generous. Though," dryly, "I'm
rather glad it is so, for it will be easy for me to be noble in that
fashion."

Miss O'Day turned to look closely at her.

"Really, Elizabeth, upon your honor now, did you really not have me in
mind when you made that speech yesterday?"

"I did not, 'pon honor," she laughed softly. Then she gave Miss O'Day's
hand a very loving squeeze to mitigate the hurt her next words might
contain. "It may be rather galling to your pride, but I did not even think
of you after we entered the meeting, although I suppose you must have been
sitting by me. I was all eyes and ears for what was going on up front. I
suppose you might add all mouth, too, for that matter."

"Then you did not know what happened here last spring? Did none of the
girls tell you?"

"I do not know what particular happenings you have in mind. But no one
told me of anything that was unusual."

"Well, then I shall tell you. It was not until last evening that I felt
that I could talk the matter over with any one; but after you spoke as you
did, I knew that you could understand. I have borne it so long without
letting any one know, that it is a relief to think I can tell just how I
feel, and how awful these months at Exeter have been. I might have gone
somewhere else this fall and not returned at all; but when I thought it
over, it seemed to me that it would be cowardly to slip away like that.
Last summer I wrote to Dr. Morgan that I intended returning. Then I made
up my mind that I would stay here until I made every one at Exeter, from
Dr. Morgan down to the dining-hall girls, respect me." She paused, then
added slowly, "But I don't seem to have made much headway yet."

There was a sadness in the girl's voice which embarrassed Elizabeth. She
knew that Nora O'Day was sad--had known that for a long time. She would
have been glad to express sympathy, say some word which would show
confidence in her companion, but she was so new to anything of this sort
that she could do nothing but sit silent and look at her. Then she
suddenly blurted out:

"I do not know what you are talking about! Tell me, Nora. I fancy it is
not really so bad as you think."

"I do not see how it could be worse! Perhaps, when I tell you, you will
feel as the others. If you do, don't stop to explain and give all kinds of
reasons for your actions. Just walk off, and I will understand that you do
not care to be friends with me. I'll not be surprised. Indeed, I rather
expect you to do just that thing--yet, after all, you have always been
different."

"Well, wait until I walk off. I may not. Dollars to doughnuts, the 'awful'
thing you have done is partly imaginary. The girls are all right, and I
love _some_ of them; but even that doesn't make me think them infallible.
But you sit there and hint about a dreadful deed you have done. One would
think you were little less than a female Captain Kidd. There are cold
chills running up and down my spine now, so begin quick and tell me
everything."

"Last spring, I went into the geometry examination and took my book with
me. I copied three theorems, letter for letter, right out of the book. A
half-dozen girls saw me--Mary Wilson, Nancy, Carrie Hirsch, Mame Welch,
Landis and Min. That same evening the girls met and decided to cut me. We
had all been friends."

"I didn't think Mary or Nancy would have done that--meet and talk over
such a matter in public."

"They didn't. Neither would Carrie or Mame. I know none of the four were
at the meeting. I think each one of them thought the matter over and
decided for herself. They speak to me at the table and any school
meetings. But that is a small part of Exeter life. They never enter my
room or invite me into theirs."

"Who called the meeting of the girls?" Elizabeth asked.

"Min Kean. I am positive of that, because the notices were signed by her.
That is required before any meeting can be held. Then Dr. Morgan knows
where to place the responsibility."

Elizabeth gave a gesture of disapproval. She was about to speak, but
checked herself, deciding that criticism was not going to help the matter.
Nora noticed her hesitancy, and attributed it to a different motive.

"What were you going to say? Do not hesitate. I deserve criticism. I am
not afraid to hear it."

"It was not a criticism of you. I was thinking that Min Kean must have
been a different person last term. I could not, although I stretched my
imagination to its limit, think of her as taking the lead in any matter.
What part did Landis take?"

"I do not know. No one ventured to tell me and I would not ask. Before we
left Exeter in the spring, she came into my room and stayed almost all of
the evening. She told me that she thought the girls acted impulsively, and
that she had done what she could to have them wait and consider; but she
was only one among many. She was acting-president at that meeting."

"Where was Anna Cresswell?"

"She was here, but would not attend. Someone told me that she refused to
be present."

"Did Landis ever come again to see you?"

"Very often this semester. I have all the essays and papers my mother
wrote when she was a student at Arlington Seminary. People who remember
her say she was gifted in that line. Of course, I do not know, for she
died when I was a baby. Somehow I never had the heart to read them,
although I have saved every one. Landis says they are quite good, and
Landis, you know, has some ability in that line herself."

Elizabeth smiled. She was beginning to understand. New ideas burst upon
her suddenly. Unconscious of the meaning which might be given to her
words, she said, "I'm just beginning to learn that it is not wise to take
any one's opinion in regard to any one else. You must trust and be
deceived, and trust again, and just go on learning people for yourself.
Did Anna Cresswell never come to see you? I should think she would since
she refused to attend the meeting."

"She came twice to ask me to go somewhere with her, once for a drive, and
once to walk, but each time I refused. I felt so badly that I had no
courage to go out among the girls. It was only a few weeks before we were
to go home. I made up my mind to bear it until school was out and then not
come back. But I changed my mind, as I told you. She did not ask me again.
But I did not expect that for she is very busy with extra work. I suppose
she thinks it has all passed away. She doesn't run about to spreads and
high teas, so she may not have discovered that I am not among those
present."

Elizabeth was silent. She was thinking, not of her companion's misdeed,
but of the part which Landis had probably played throughout the affair.
Nora waited for her to speak, but receiving no answer put another
question.

"Are you, too, so disgusted with me that you can't bear to speak of it?"

"No," slowly, "I am not disgusted. But you certainly cannot expect me to
grow enthusiastic or praise you for cheating. I don't like dishonesty in
any form; but I do not know that it is my place to pass judgment on you. I
may criticise that in you; someone else will find something to criticise
in me. One thing I am quite sure of. You are sorry as sorry can be that
you did it; and you will never be guilty of cheating again, even if you
know that you will fail and be compelled to go to school here forever."

"You may be sure of that. One experience ended such methods for me." There
was nothing conciliatory in her tone.

"I will be honest with you, Nora. I am disappointed in you, but I'm glad
you told me. You may be quite sure this will make no difference in our
friendship."

Much to Elizabeth's surprise, Nora, instead of replying, began to sob, and
it was some minutes before she could speak.

"I appreciate this, Elizabeth. I know I did wrong, and I have spent six
months in being sorry. Yet I do not believe I should be censured so much
as some of you if you had done the same thing. That is rather an odd thing
to say, I know. But when I tell you all, you will understand just what I
mean. My mother died when I was a few weeks old. She belonged to an
excellent family, an only child. Somehow," the girl hesitated. It was
difficult to explain without seeming critical of one parent. "Somehow, my
father never cared much for what mother cared for most. He could not see
anything wrong in cards, and wine-parties, and things like that. When
mother died grandmother Loraine took me. But she did not live long. Then I
went back home and lived with a housekeeper and the servants. Sometimes
they were honest and sometimes not. Mrs. Gager took charge of me. She was
a very clean old German woman and not afraid of work, but was not refined.
She couldn't even read. I am not complaining, for she was as good to me as
she knew how to be. Nothing that I wanted was too much trouble. She was
really my slave, and made every one around the house step when I spoke.

"I was a little tyrant. Father spent a great deal of time from home, for
he was a very busy man. But he spoiled me, too. I had but to stamp my foot
and he would let me do what I wished. He really could not deny me
anything, and he doesn't yet. You see, I am the only person in the world
he has left, and he thinks I am simply wonderful." She laughed lightly. "I
am always amused when I hear him talk to anyone of me. It is nice, though,
to have someone think of you in that way. He is wholly sincere. He really
believes I'm the brightest and most attractive girl at Exeter.

"Mrs. Gager used to drink occasionally. At such times--I must have been
eight years old--she told me what excuses to make to father for her and
how to keep Maggie, the second maid, from knowing it. Strange as it may
seem, this old woman was my ideal. I never hesitated to carry her false
messages, and there was a constant succession of small deceptions. When I
was able to fool Maggie, I was commended.

"When I grew older, I met a great number of business men--some of whom
were my father's traveling salesmen. And they always made a point of
telling how sharp they had been in their transactions. I know now that
they were merely dishonest. I do not know whether father approved or not.
They told these stories to entertain me and not when they were talking
business with him.

"Father was always liberal. I spend as much as I wish. He never questions
how, but gives me whatever I ask.

"The conversation I generally heard among the servants--and I spent most
of my time with them--was comments on how well or how shabby some one
dressed, and how much or how little money people had. Don't blame my
father for neglecting me. He hired the best servants he could, and did
what he thought was for my good. I was well clothed and fed; and Mrs.
Gager took excellent care of my health. His business kept him away from
home. And, anyhow, men are not like women. A woman would have understood
at once that I needed something more than clothes and food."

"I suppose we can't understand," said Elizabeth. "I'm sure I don't. I've
always had a mother. She would punish me severely if I ever deceived
anyone. My father, too, and Miss Hale are the same way. I was brought up
to abhor anything that wasn't honest. But, then," reflectively, "I'll not
take much credit to myself for that. It was my training--not me. If I'm
truthful and all that, it's because of my parents."

"If I saw no great harm in copying my examinations, it is because I had
been no better taught. It was a surprise to learn that every one looked
upon such an act with contempt. I would not do such a thing now. Not
because I wish to curry favor with Mary Wilson and her set, but because I
feel it is wrong." She paused awhile and then continued, "I think I am
like the Loraines in that. My mother would have died before she would have
knowingly done wrong."

The talk went on in this strain for some time. Then Elizabeth spoke of the
telegram she had received and suggested that she might not go home during
the holidays.

Nora offered her sympathy. She did not ask Elizabeth where she lived. It
was odd that, although they were friends, she never knew until the close
of school that Joseph Hobart, the expert mining engineer of Bitumen, was
Elizabeth's father.

It was quite late when Elizabeth slipped back into her bedroom. She
undressed in the dark so that she might not waken her roommate, but Mary
heard her and spoke:

"You and Nora O'Day must have had a great deal to say. 'Smiles' has
trotted down here twice inquiring for you."

"What did you tell her?"

"That I was not your keeper. I think she will interview you privately
to-morrow."

"Mary, there's something I wish to ask you. At the meeting last spring,
who was it that worked up the case against Nora O'Day?"

"Landis. Why?"

"Oh, because. Are you sure? Did she take an active part?"

"Yes; I'm sure. Could you imagine a meeting where Landis didn't put in her
oar? Why do you ask?"

"Because I wanted to know."

"An excellent reason," was the sleepy response.

"But, Mary--" But Mary was asleep.

CHAPTER IX.

JOE'S MESSAGE.

After breakfast the following morning, Elizabeth was summoned to the
reception-hall where Joe Ratowsky awaited her. He stood twisting his hat
about as she entered. The expansive smile which covered his swarthy face
was not so much one of goodwill as embarrassment. He stood in the center
of the room so that by no possible chance could he touch any article of
furniture. Joe was no coward. He had performed heroic parts when mobs of
miners and the militia, during the big strikes, met in conflict. But the
thought of sitting down on chairs upholstered in satin of dainty colors
made the cold chills run up and down his spine.

It was cruel in Elizabeth to shake his hand so long and so vigorously,
even though she was glad to see him. And it was worse than cruel to keep
pushing easy chairs before him and insisting upon him sitting down.
Elizabeth insisted, and in desperation Joe took a letter from his pocket
and thrust it before her.

"Mees-ter Hobart, he write--he write heap--b'gosh."

"He isn't sick, Joe, is he?"

"Sick!" Joe grunted his disgust at the thought of anyone being sick. "He
well, so well--he get fat, b'gosh, so fat, Meester O'Day, he look like
pole he come long Meester Hobart, b'gosh."

Joe nodded his head vigorously, a habit he had of emphasizing any
statement he wished to make particularly strong. Elizabeth could not
restrain a smile at the comparison.

"Is mother well, too, Joe?" Joe nodded vigorously while he wiped his
brow.

"She well like the tivil, b'gosh. Yes, b'gosh, she so well as that."

"Well, then, Joe, why is it they do not wish me to go home?"

Joe flung out his hand as though what he was about to say was a mere
trifle, not worthy her consideration.

"The miner--not so glad, b'gosh. They no work--no--no work. They say they
tear up railroad, b'gosh. Meester Hobart, he say, 'No tear up road.' Joe
Ratowsky, he say, 'No tear up road.' All time keep watch so no tear up
road. You not come. Mebbe no road, mebbe all right, b'gosh."

"A strike, Joe? Do you mean the miners threaten to destroy the road?" He
nodded.

"No strike now, b'gosh. Colowski, he say, 'Strike.' Then all say,
'Strike.' Joe Ratowsky, he give him one between his eyes like this." He
doubled up his fist, showing how peace had been restored. "He no say
strike then. He crawl off. He no come round for day and day."

"Did they go back to work then?" Elizabeth was excited. All her life she
had heard of the horrors of a prolonged strike. From childhood she had a
dim recollection of someone taking her from her warm bed, and running
across fields, seeking safety miles away. As in a dream, she could hear
the roar of hoarse voices and see the flickering torches of the mob.

Joe shook his head slowly. "No, b'gosh. They mad like the tivil. They go
back some day, so many tollars, every day for work. No more," shaking his
head in negation, "No, no more, b'gosh."

Elizabeth grew anxious. She seized Mr. Ratowsky's coat sleeve.

"But, Joe, tell me truly, is my father in danger? They won't hurt him?"

"B'gosh, no. He safe like anything. They no mad like the tivil at him.
Emery they mad at."

"Is Mr. Emery there?" Again Joe shook his head. "Meester Emery, he go over
ocean. He no come back, mebbe so long till summer. When he come back, the
miners so mad they treat him like the tivil, b'gosh."

This Mr. Emery, of whom he spoke, was one of the operators of the
soft-coal region; a man who visited the miners once in a dozen years and
of whom his workmen knew little.

Joe had evidently been instructed how much to tell Elizabeth in regard to
the trouble. Being assured that her father was not in danger, her mind
turned toward the letter, her eyes following her thoughts.

"I go back quick. I tell Meester Hobart you look well like everything." He
shook his head vigorously to assure her how fine a message he would carry.
"I will, b'gosh," he repeated.

He made his way to the door, keeping his eyes upon the chairs and tables
in his path. He sighed with relief when he had passed them, and saw a line
of retreat open before him. He continued to repeat the message he would
carry to her father.

"Grow so tall likes nothing. He will be so glad like the tivil. I tells
him so. Yes, he will, b'gosh." These were his parting words as the door
closed upon him.

The greater number of the girls in the dormitory hall had packed or were
packing their trunks. The hallway was obstructed with baggage of all
descriptions, awaiting the coming of Jimmy Jordan and his train of
helpers.

Mary Wilson was to leave Exeter immediately after lunch. She had begun her
preparations before breakfast. Elizabeth, taking it for granted that their
rooms would yet be in confusion, went down to the window-seat where she
and Nora had sat the night before, in order to read her letter in quiet.
There was nothing unusual in it--nothing to startle her, at least; the
home news was told with her father's usual buoyant spirit. If he were
harassed or annoyed, his letter writing did not show it. It was not until
all the bright little bits of home life had been related that he mentioned
the trouble at the mines--just a little local trouble, nothing general.
Both her mother and he thought it best that she should not go up the
mountain railroad this time of year. There was nothing at all to alarm
her. She was to spend her holidays with any one of the girls whom Dr.
Morgan advised. It was difficult on account of the snow to get the mails
through. She must not be anxious if her accustomed letter did not arrive
on time.

As was her habit with home letters, Elizabeth read and re-read it. She was
slipping it back into its envelope when Landis and Min appeared. Both were
dressed for traveling. They stopped to enquire of Elizabeth when she
expected to leave Exeter, being surprised to see her sitting there in her
school dress when the others were either packing or already leaving. She
told them the possibility of her remaining at the Hall for the holiday
season. At this Landis wrinkled her brow in perplexity, and pondered
awhile in deep thought.

"I was trying to see my way clear to ask you to go with me to The
Beeches--my home, so called because of the magnificent trees which grow
near our residence. But I do not see how I can manage it now. I do wish I
had known about this sooner. I might have been able to arrange matters
somehow. I do not like the idea of your being here alone. Exeter is dull
with the girls gone. It's really unbearable. But I have arranged to go
home with Min until the day before Christmas. We always have a big family
party for that day, and our home is filled. I suppose we could tuck you in
somewhere--if you do not object to the third floor."

"Oh, do not think of it, I beg you," began Elizabeth hurriedly. Somehow
Exeter without company seemed better to her than The Beeches with Landis.
"I would not for the world cause you any inconvenience. Besides, the
matter is in the hands of Dr. Morgan. I must do as she decides."

"Well, I hope she will see fit to send you off somewhere. Come to think of
it, I do believe I could not let you have even a third floor room. Our
cook always takes the privilege of asking in some of her relations, and
that leaves no space unfilled. I wish it were otherwise."

"You are kind to think of it. But I could not go in any event. I must go
back to my room now. Mary is deep in her packing and will need me. When do
you leave?"

"Not until afternoon. But we are going into the city. Shall we see you
before we leave?"

"I think not."

Good-byes were said, and Elizabeth went to her room. She was disappointed
at not being able to go home, but had no fear of a possible strike, or any
danger to her father. Joe Ratowsky had reassured her, and besides her
faith in her own father made her confident. There was no question in her
mind about his being popular with the miners. He had been not only their
superintendent, but physician, friend and banker.

Having packed her trunk so full that the lid would not close, Mary was
jumping up and down on it when Elizabeth entered. She hailed her with an
exclamation of delight. "I'm so glad you weigh something! Come, sit on my
trunk while I turn the key. I can get the lid down, but it springs open
the instant I get off, and I cannot stand up there and turn the key at the
same time. I have been bouncing on it for the last half-hour."

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright from her strenuous efforts.
Elizabeth did as requested. The trunk closed with a snap.

"And now," asked Mary, "when do you begin to pack? I suppose your Polish
friend brought you news from home. I hurried to get my belongings out of
the way that you might begin."

"Not until next June," was the reply. Then sitting down on the trunk
beside Mary, she related the messages which Joe had brought, and the
advice which her father's letter contained.

Mary listened without comment until the story was finished. Then she
tossed back her hair, and without a word hurried to the door, flung it
open with a great disregard for the amount of noise she was making and
began hauling in Elizabeth's trunk.

"You have just three hours to pack, dress, eat and get down to the
station," she said, unbuckling straps and removing trays as she spoke.

"But--"

"Don't stop to talk or ask questions, or say you can't." Mary stopped long
enough to stamp her foot in order to emphasize her words. "You're going
home with me. We'll talk it over afterward. We haven't time now. I'll hear
the objections to-morrow. Put on your duds, and I'll pack, while you get
yourself ready."

"But you--"

"I'm ready except my coat and hat." She was carrying Elizabeth's clothes
from the wardrobe, and placing them in the trunk. Elizabeth did as she was
told without questioning further. She was only too glad to be taken
possession of, for the thought of Exeter Hall without the girls had not
been pleasant.

The trunk was packed and her dressing about completed when Nora O'Day
entered. She was dressed in a handsome traveling suit, the product of a
city importer. As usual, she carried her lithe, slender body proudly, as
though no one was quite her equal. Elizabeth understood the girl now and
knew that her defiant attitude was assumed.

"I've come in to say goodbye. I haven't a minute. The cab is waiting for
me." She shook hands with Mary. Then turned to embrace Elizabeth. There
was a great deal of affection in her manner toward this new friend. "We
were talking last night of mother's theses. I put some together for you to
take with you to read. I really think you will enjoy them. I know you will
be careful of them. I mean to keep them all and some day read them over."
She kissed Elizabeth again, and with a hurried goodbye was gone.

Elizabeth appreciated this remembrance more than a gift of greater money
value. Nora cherished these papers the most of all her possessions, and
she gave her best when she confided them to Elizabeth. Slipping them into
the tray of the trunk, she turned to the mirror to arrange her collar. At
last turning to Mary, she said, "There, I'm clothed and in my right mind,
and we yet have half an hour. Now we must report to Dr. Morgan."

"You are evidently clothed," was the response, "but I'm not sure about the
right mind. Don't you remember that Dr. Morgan does not return until
to-night? By that time we will be home. I'll speak to Miss Brosius as we
go down to lunch. She's the high-monkey-monk here when our Ph. D. is
roaming. We have no time to waste. Jordan will see to the trunks and
tickets. He always does. Put on your wraps. We'll eat our lunch with them
on. It is no use coming back up-stairs. There are but few of the girls
left. We'll bid them goodbye down-stairs."

It was not until then that Elizabeth had time to think about going to
Mary's home. Then she stopped and suddenly put the question: "Perhaps your
mother will not want me, Mary. She--"

"Come on! Of course, she'll want you. She is always glad to have company.
She would not be pleased if I came home and left you here alone."

"But it might inconvenience her," she began again.

"Nothing ever inconveniences my mother. She won't allow it to. The only
trouble we have is that our girls take sudden notions to go off and marry,
and sometimes we do not have anyone to do the work. I think Fanny intended
being married during the holidays. If she does, you and I will have a
position as dishwasher. Can you wash dishes?"

"Yes; I always do at home."

"Well, we may have to do it. But we will have a good time. When the
servants take to themselves wings we all help, and such fun as we do have!
A little matter like that never inconveniences mother. Once during court
week, our only hotel burned. There was a big case on before father, and he
brought all the witnesses and lawyers home. They were there three days.
Mother seemed to think it was a joke." Then with a look at Elizabeth, she
added with conviction, "A little bit of a girl like _you_ could not
inconvenience _her_."

The Wilson home was at Windburne, a two hours' ride from Exeter with a
change of cars at Ridgway.

It was extremely cold when the girls left the Hall, but before they
reached Ridgway the mercury had gone several degrees lower.

The road to Windburne from the Ridgway junction is a local affair, narrow
gauge, with little rocking cars in which a tall person could scarcely
stand upright. Windburne is the county-seat and consequently a place of
importance, but Ridgway has little traffic and the roads intersecting
there take no pains to make close connections.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon when the girls reached the junction,
a bleak little place with a low-roofed station, black and dirty. A hotel
stood at the corner--a rough saloon. An engine with a coach usually waited
on this narrow gauge track, but this afternoon there was none. Before she
entered the waiting-room Miss Wilson looked about, expressing her surprise
at the condition of affairs.

"The worst is yet to come," cried a voice back of them. The girls turned
to discover the ticket agent, just about to leave for home.

"The narrow gauge is storm-stayed. You will not be able to go through
to-night."

"Then we'll turn about and go to Exeter."

"Not to-night. The last train pulled out just before No. 10 came in.
There's a hotel over there--"

"Yes, we _smelled_ it," said Elizabeth seriously.

He laughed, and inquired where they were going. Then he suggested a plan.
The hotel was not a suitable place in which to spend the night, and they
could not return to Exeter; but he would find for them a trustworthy
driver who would take them safely to Windburne.

There was no choice. Mary accepted his offer. The girls stayed in the
dingy waiting-room until he returned with a sleigh, horses and driver.

"This man will take you there safely," he said, with a nod toward the
driver. "He knows the road and knows, too, how to handle horses to get the
most out of them." He assisted the girls into the sleigh, tucking the
robes well about them. A moment later, they were speeding along the
country road. The sleighing was fine but the wind had a clear sweep over
the bare fields, and it had grown much colder. They began to shiver in
spite of their heavy wraps.

"We are over half-way there," encouraged Mary. "The farmhouse we have just
passed is six miles from Ridgway. I know the roads about here. This is
beautiful in summer time. Landis Stoner lives in the last farmhouse along
this road. After we pass there, we won't see another for five miles, and
when we do it will be Windburne. There, you can catch a glimpse of the
place now."

"Couldn't we stop and get warm?" asked Elizabeth, her teeth chattering.
"My feet are numb!"

"Yes; perhaps it would be better. We'll get Mrs. Stoner to heat bricks for
our feet. She's very hospitable, and will make us comfortable." She leaned
over to speak to the driver, requesting him to stop at the Stoner place.

Elizabeth was too cold to look about her as they entered the house. She
was conscious only that an immense beech was stretching its bare boughs
before the doorway, then someone was leading her to an easy chair,
removing her wraps and rubbing her hands to make them warm. In a few
minutes she was herself. Mrs. Stoner had brought them hot coffee, and was
now putting bricks into the fireplace.

Elizabeth looked upon her in surprise. This was not the style of woman she
had pictured in her mind as Landis' mother. She was a faded, slender
little body, mild and gentle in manner and voice. One felt that she was
refined and had devoted the best of her life to serving others. She was
dressed in a plain dark calico, which had seen better days, yet its
absolute cleanliness and the band of white at her throat gave her an air
of being well-dressed.

The room, evidently the best in the house, was homey and comfortable.
There was an open fireplace big enough to accommodate a four-foot log, a
bright rag carpet, and some wooden rockers with easy cushions. The windows
had white sash curtains. In one were pots of blooming geraniums.

"I have never been at Exeter," Mrs. Stoner said. "Of course, I have heard
of it all my life. As a young girl, I used to dream what a fine thing it
would be to go there to school. But it was not to be. Landis, however, is
having that privilege, and I am very thankful. Miss Rice--you have met
her; every one hereabouts has--thinks that every girl should have a little
more than they get in public schools. She's made it possible for Landis to
go."

Their hostess then brought out some pictures Landis had sent home--kodak
views of the girls, their rooms, and the campus.

"You see," she added with a smile, "although I have never been at Exeter,
I know it well. Landis writes of the teachers and her girl friends until I
feel I know them thoroughly."

As the mother continued, her pale face lighting up, Elizabeth saw Landis
in a different light. The girl was evidently devoted to her mother, if one
could judge from the numerous letters and the many little souvenirs from
school displayed.

"It was dull for Landis here," she continued. "There is no company for
miles, and only her father and I at home. She did not want to leave us.
But I told her we were used to the quiet and were company for each other.
I miss her, of course, but it would have been selfish to have kept her
here. She must live her own life and have her own experiences, and I can't
expect her to be satisfied with what satisfies me."

The hot coffee had made them comfortable; the bricks in the grate were
hot, and the time had come to start. Solicitous of their welfare, Mrs.
Stoner brought extra wraps, warming them at the open fire, then securely
pinning them about the girls. She came to see them off and Elizabeth, with
a sudden impulse, kissed her warmly.

When they were safely in the sleigh again and speeding over the frozen
roads, she turned to Mary with the explanation: "Do you know, she's really
homesick to see Landis? I couldn't help kissing her; she's so gentle and
sweet that I could easily love her."

She turned her head to catch a last glimpse and to wave farewell to the
little woman standing in the doorway of the humble home which Landis had
called "The Beeches."

CHAPTER X.

CLOUDS AND GATHERING STORMS.

Dennis O'Day, as he stood at the door of his saloon this autumn afternoon,
was an excellent advertisement for the line of goods he carried. He was
big and flabby. The skin about his eyes had grown into loose sacks; his
eyes were a steel-gray, cruel, keen, crafty, without a particle of humor
or affection. He owned the largest breweries in the state, and controlled
numerous retail houses where his products were sold.

His dealings were largely with the foreign element. He spoke ready German
with its various dialects. His name indicated his nationality. Though an
Irishman he lacked the great-heartedness of his countrymen. The humor
which made their shanties brimming with life and fun was not for him. He
drove the Poles and Slavs who lived about Bitumen like a herd of cattle.
The few who voted, voted as Dennis O'Day told them. The labor problem was
discussed over his bar. He fixed for them the length of day, and the rate
per ton. He was the bell-sheep for all the foreign herd. In return for
their allegiance, he bailed them out of jail when necessary. When Gerani
in a drunken quarrel, had stabbed the fighting, ugly-tempered little
Italian, Marino De Angelo, it was Dennis who established an alibi, and
swore all manner of oaths to prove that Gerani, a law-abiding citizen, a
credit to the commonwealth, could not possibly have done it. As to the
guilty party, O'Day had shaken his head in doubt. He was not quick to
remember the faces of these foreigners. There were many about--some new to
him. It was impossible to point out the guilty man. He appeared really
grieved that the death of De Angelo should go unpunished, and left the
court-room with the avowed intent of bringing the murderer to justice.
That had been some five years before, and De Angelo's murderer was yet
unpunished. But from that time, Gerani was a slave to O'Day. There was no
work about the hotel or town that he would not do at the saloonist's
bidding. He made good wages in the mines and the proprietor of "The
Miner's Rest" received the biggest portion of them.

It was not for love of Landlord O'Day the big Pole served so faithfully,
for he muttered and cursed under his breath the instant he was out of
range of the cold, steely eyes. O'Day was not in ignorance of this for
Coslowski had warned him. The men had been drinking, Gerani among them.

"Keep your eye on the big Polack," he said to Dennis, yet loud enough for
all to hear. "If you don't want to hand in your checks soon, don't let him
get behind you on a dark night."

At that Gerani had scowled malignantly. O'Day laughed loud and
mirthlessly, while he washed glasses and kept his eye on the scowling
Pole.

"He'd do it quick enough. Dead men tell no tales; but confessions do. And
I've left with Father Brady a nice lot of paper which he's to read when
I'm gone. It will be hot enough around here to make more than one swing
for a breeze. I'm safe with Gerani--so long as those papers are safe with
Father Brady." The big Pole moved away from his place at the front. As
O'Day ceased speaking, he disappeared into the darkness.

By such methods O'Day had gained his influence over the foreigners. He was
lawless. His place was open on the Sabbath and until all hours of the
night. Young boys entered sober and came forth drunk. There was no one to
call him to account. Then from somewhere came Joe Ratowsky. And from that
time, the troubles of Dennis O'Day began.

Yet big Joe was apparently innocent. He could smatter only a little
English. No one seemed to know where he came from and he never furnished
the information even when asked; he never seemed to hear the question. He
was friendly with his countrymen, and stood by them whenever the need
arose. He was often called upon to act as interpreter between the bosses
and the men, but still he was different from those about him. He was a
Pole, heart and soul, and his faith was bound to the homeland whose
ultimate independence was his one dream; he had risen a grade higher in
the moral scale than those whom his work made his associates. Joe took
baths. Joe read a Polish paper; he did not drink except one glass of beer
at his dinner. None of them had ever been able to persuade him to go
further than that. Whether it were a wedding or a wake, Joe was staunch.
This moderation, with the baths, set him, apart.

He did not mine at Bitumen, but worked his little patch of ground,
interpreted when there was need for small consideration, and at last
opened a little restaurant where lunches after the German style were
served. His black coffee certainly excelled O'Day's beer, while the
wienerwurst and "Schnitz-und-Knöpf" put to shame the meals at "The Miner's
Rest."

Joe's place consisted of a great room with a bare floor, furnished with
wooden chairs and tables. One weekly paper in German was always to be
found. The German element at Bitumen could read their own language; and
they passed the news on to the others. The innovation of the paper
diminished the popularity of O'Day's place. Joe also introduced music, or
what was passed for it. Then O'Day offered to buy him out at a price more
than the place was worth. Joe smiled blandly, "Me know Slav--me know
Polack talk. Me know no English like you say. Me no understand. Meester
Hobart, he tell you vat you says. He tell you quick like the tivil." But
Dennis O'Day had no desire to speak with Mr. Hobart. His efforts with Joe
were futile. The big Pole had made up his mind not to understand.

The superintendent was liked well enough by the saloonist, and
consequently by the greater portion of the men. Mr. Hobart was opposed to
liquor, and had not hesitated to express himself to that effect. But O'Day
cared little for that so long, as he said, the man knew his place and did
not interfere. And his place, to O'Day's way of thinking, was to
superintend the mines, and let the morals of the men alone. "I'll take
good care of them," he was apt to add with a crafty look. His intercourse
with Mr. Hobart began and ended with a bow of recognition in the street.
So far as the liquor business was concerned, O'Day considered the
superintendent harmless, and that was as far as he concerned himself with
anyone.

Some subtle influence was working against O'Day. From whence it came he
was not able to determine. The time had passed, however, when he could
break the law with impunity. He felt that keen eyes were upon him. He was
cunning enough to know that his safety now lay in his keeping within the
limits of the law. He made ostentatious show of closing at the prescribed
hours. All the while he kept his eyes and ears open to discover his
enemy.

Big Joe Ratowsky was the only probable one. He made frequent visits to
"The Miner's Rest," but never drank. He knew the ages of all the miners.
In this respect Joe's watchfulness was clear to O'Day's mind; but there
the evidence stopped, and much could be said on the other side. So, still
at sea, O'Day kept himself sober and his eyes and ears open to all that
was said and done in his place of business. Finally, when his confidence
was fully restored, he returned to his old way of doing business, and kept
open one Sunday. His place was filled with drunken, riotous Poles and
Slavs. In a spirit of recklessness, he sold freely to all. On the
following morning a summons was served to appear before the court to
answer to the charge of illegal liquor selling. The charge was brought by
the Pole, big Joe Ratowsky. Even then O'Day's perception was dull. It did
not come to him that Joe was merely the instrument in the hand of someone
who would not act openly.

Raffelo Bruno, the little hunchback shoemaker, opened his eyes to the
truth. He was by nature suspicious. He had faith in no man. When the
summons came to O'Day, Raffelo quit his bench and made his way to the
saloon. His dark, swarthy face, with stubby beard, was twisted and
contorted. He gesticulated continuously, sawing the air with his hands.
"Ye-s--Joe Ratowsky, he run and tell ze--ze. He ees--one--fool. He ze
monkee on ze stick. Mees-ter Ho-bart, he meek hims--jump."

The suggestion was enough. Joe was the tool of someone, and that someone
was Superintendent Hobart; such was the idea the Italian meant to convey.
O'Day in forcible terms cursed himself that he had not seen this before.
It was evident enough now. Mr. Hobart, as superintendent, dare not
antagonize the drink-indulging miners with open warfare against the
saloon. Joe was his tool, carrying out his plans. Joe Ratowsky with his
smattering of English did not know enough to make himself a formidable
enemy. Some keen mind with a knowledge of the liquor law was the power
back of the Pole. The coffee-house and reading-room which Joe had opened
were mere subterfuges to draw the men away from the saloon. The man could
not and did not make enough to keep himself and family in the poor way
they lived.

It was clear enough to O'Day now, though he ridiculed Bruno for suggesting
that Mr. Hobart interested himself in such matters.

The summons was served in October. O'Day appeared before the November
court. They might have brought half a dozen different counts against him,
but they did not. The prosecuting attorney, with great confidence in his
own judgment, had drawn up the papers specifically charging Dennis O'Day
with selling to minors. He had evidence sufficient on that one count to
have his license revoked.

The trial passed off quickly. Four boys, not over sixteen, testified that
Dennis O'Day himself had sold liquor to them, not once but many times. It
was proof positive without Joe Ratowsky giving his testimony.

O'Day himself sat hunched up in the prisoners' dock, glinting his keen
eyes about from witness to juror. When the witnesses had testified against
him, his attorney brought forth, in turn, the father of each boy, who
declared that he had personally given the saloonist permission to sell
liquor to his son. By this the Minor Liquor Law was, in effect,
circumvented. That each father was the richer by some of O'Day's money was
generally supposed. But that was not the issue at hand. The case was
dismissed. O'Day went back to Bitumen wiser in that he knew whom to fear,
and with the privilege of freely selling to the young boys who had
testified against him.

Though to all appearances the matter ended here, the fight had just
begun.

It would have been impossible for anyone, except O'Day, to tell just how
the trouble began. But before a month had passed, there arose a feeling of
dissatisfaction among the miners. It could be felt rather than expressed.
Where once every Slav and Pole smiled at the mention of the boss's name,
now there was only silence, a silence ominous to those who knew the signs.
Joe Ratowsky understood and went at midnight to ask Mr. Hobart to go away
somewhere for a time, until the discontent passed. But Mr. Hobart was not
one to leave his work because a man of Dennis O'Day's stamp saw fit to
disapprove of him. If there was trouble brewing, there was all the more
reason for him to stand at his post. He laughed at Ratowsky's fears, and
encouraged him to think that half the discontent among the men was of his
own imagination.

A series of accidents, or what passed as such, began immediately after
Dennis O'Day was acquitted.

The cable, which drew the coal cars up the incline, broke, letting them
fall back at break-neck speed against the engine-house. Fortunately it
occurred at a time when the men were not riding up the incline, so no
lives were lost. This accident was the subject of discussion that night at
"The Miner's Rest." O'Day was over-solicitous about the welfare of the
men. He criticised corporations which risked the lives of the workmen for
the sake of saving. "Anyone could see the cable was weak in spots," he
said. "It wasn't a week ago that I walked up the incline--wouldn't trust
myself to such a rotten chain. A new cable costs, of course, and the
company used the old one till it fell to pieces. They hain't risking their
lives. What does it matter to them if a few Slavs and Polacks hand in
their checks? Huns and Dagos are thick as blackberries in June, and about
as valuable."

At his words the men about the tables scowled. It mattered to them if a
few lives were lost, providing their own were among them.

"I wish I had the corporations by the throat," added O'Day vehemently, all
the while watching the effect of his words upon his hearers. He could read
these people like an open book, and he was keen enough to know when it was
wise to stop talking and when continue. "I'd choke them into taking care
of the men's lives. You're all just so many cattle to them. A Hun isn't so
much to them as a cow, and they would see you all in perdition rather than
lose a good mule."

The faces about him were scowling and malignant. Each man was ready to
believe all evil against that great and incomprehensible body known as a
corporation. They had heard the war-cry between capital and labor dinned
into their ears since the day they set foot upon American soil. It meant
nothing to them that their teachers were always men like O'Day, who, while
lining their own pockets with the laborers' earnings, cry out against the
men who are getting more, though lawfully. It never came to their
untrained minds that O'Day proved nothing. He said so, that was enough.
O'Day listened to the muttered growls of dissatisfaction.

"But, I suppose," he continued hypocritically, "that we shouldn't blame
the men who have put their money in the mines. They are only wanting a
fair interest on their investment. That's only right. No doubt they send
money enough right into Bitumen to have things kept up first-class, better
houses for the miners, and cables that don't break. I'm thinking there
hain't one of those big ones in the city who knows how poor you men live,
how little you get, and how you risk your lives every day you work. How
should they know? They spend money enough to have things fine." Then he
added, "They hain't to blame if the men they've put in charge hain't
honest."

That was enough for one night. O'Day, still discreet and tactful, dropped
the subject. Not so with the men. They rolled the idea about until it grew
into immense proportions. A week passed, and yet they talked. If there had
been one among them fitted to lead, there would have been open trouble.
There was no one. Bruno had daring and sagacity enough, but he was an
Italian--a Dago, in common parlance, and the Slavs and Poles hated the
Dagos worse than they hated the smallpox.

Sometime later a small stationary engine blew up; and Colowski was hit on
the head by a piece of flying iron. Ellis, the engineer, insisted that he
was not careless. He had kept his steam-register down to one hundred and
fifty pounds when the limit was three hundred. Superintendent Hobart was
about to discharge him when Joe Ratowsky appeared.

"It's the tivil's own work, b'gosh, Meester Hobart. Gerani, he comes and
he fools with the little boiler-clock. Me come like the tivil, b'gosh, or
me could have stopped it quick." He had picked up the steam-register and
was holding it in his hand. It was what he called the boiler-clock. It had
been hurled a great distance but yet remained whole.

Mr. Hobart took it from Joe's hand to examine it. He had given little
credence to Ratowsky's words. He whistled softly to himself as he examined
the register. He began to believe the Pole right. Affairs at Bitumen were
assuming a serious aspect.

O'Day's acquittal had taught him one lesson--to be prepared for any
emergency. For that reason, he handed the register to Ellis. "Look closely
at that," he said. "There's evidence enough there to free you from blame.
But I wish you and Joe to see this for yourselves and not take my word for
it."

Ellis, too, whistled when he examined the register. Little wonder that he
had not been able to put on a full head of steam. A strong but almost
invisible steel rod had been driven in the face of the register at such a
point that the hand moving under the pressure of steam would stop at the
one-hundred-and-fifty-pound mark.

"It couldn't have been driven there by the explosion?" asked Ellis.

"Impossible. We haven't a steel brad like that about the place, and never
have had. Joe saw Gerani prowling about before you came."

"And I saw him leave, Mr. Hobart. I went up to Bruno's shack to have my
shoes fixed, and I came down over the hill instead of the usual way by the
road. Gerani was just going up as I came down."

Mr. Hobart made no further comment. But from that time Gerani was watched
closely. Joe Ratowsky, while seemingly doing nothing but attend his little
lunch-counter, shadowed the man. He knew when Gerani came and went. There
was proof enough that he had been interfering with the engine. But it was
not he alone whom Mr. Hobart wished to reach. It was the man back of the
act who had sent the Pole to do the work.

The superintendent thought at first of dismissing Gerani. But this might
bring on more serious complications. His fellow-workmen might object--the
Huns and Poles, at least. The Italians were not in the mines but were
employed about the dumps, and on the road which wound about the mountain.
It was Joe again who thought of a means of subduing Gerani. He had heard
enough of O'Day's covert suggestion that he could tell much that Gerani
dreaded. Joe undertook the same stratagem. One stormy night he met Gerani
on his way home. Catching him by his sleeve, he detained him long enough
to say in his native tongue, "I've a word to say to you in secret,
brother. O'Day is not the only one that knows about the Dago. The
superintendent, he knows, too; but he keeps quiet because you are a good
miner when you are not drunk, brother. So a word of warning. Keep friends
with Mr. Hobart, and whatever happens, don't let it come to his ears that
Gerani went up at daylight to work at the engine. Just a word of warning,
brother, all given in good faith, and for the sake of the land from which
we came."

That was all. Joe Ratowsky strode on through the darkness without giving
the other time to respond. In his own tongue, his speech was impressive.
He saw now, from the frightened expression of Gerani's face, that his
words had struck home.

The next morning, the big Pole was not at the mines, nor did he come to
draw the pay due him. Joe Ratowsky chuckled to himself when several days
passed. "Gerani--oh--he all right. We no fear him. Me scare him like the
tivil, b'gosh."

Mr. Hobart rested easy again with Gerani at a distance and afraid of him.
But men of O'Day's stamp can readily find tools to their need.

There was a week or more of quiet, then the engine and one car, which went
down the mountain each morning to bring back the mail, was derailed at the
second switchback and crashed into a forest of big oaks. The car was
empty, and the train, being on the second switch, was moving backward. The
rear end of the coach was crushed but the engine and engineer escaped
unhurt.

"Gerani," said Mr. Hobart when he heard the news, but Ratowsky shook his
head in negation. "You no see him no more. He be bad man at Bitumen no
more, b'gosh." Then Joe laughed heartily and slapped his broad limbs with
his hand. He never lost his first appreciation of the manner in which he
had settled Gerani's interference. There had been a gang of a dozen
Italians somewhere along the road, but they had neither seen nor heard
anyone.

For several weeks communication between Bitumen and the rest of the world
was cut off. It was then that Joe Ratowsky walked to the foot of the hill
to telegraph Elizabeth to remain at Exeter. And the day following he
called upon her, with a letter, putting the best construction he could
upon the road being disabled.

There was a little mule-driver in the mines who bore the euphonious name
of Ketchomunoski. He ate much wienerwurst and drank beer freely, and on
holidays devoured, at one sitting, a half-dozen loaves of bread, the
centers of which had been previously dug out and filled with melted lard.
He visited "The Miners' Rest" and reeled home to his shack at a late hour.
All these are mere preliminary details to the statement that his nerves
were growing irritable, and his temper uncertain. He beat one mule until
it was forced to return disabled to the barn, and a few days later
mistreated a second until it was worthless and the boss in a humane spirit
had the animal shot.

For such cases a precedent had long been established. The boy deserved to
be discharged at once, and discharged he was. Had conditions been normal,
discharging a mule-driver would have been of so little moment it would
have passed without comment. But O'Day's quiet work had not been without
its effect.

The same evening, a delegation of miners waited upon Mr. Hobart.
Ketchomunoski was to be put back or the rest of them would go out. Mr.
Hobart listened to their terms. He considered the question before
replying. Again he felt certain that another brain had put the plan in
operation. After deliberation, he spoke to them plainly. Such a movement
on their part was ill-advised. First, the largest orders for the year had
already been filled, and enough coal was at the dumps and in cars at the
foot of the mountain to fill the orders which came in month by month. So
far as The Kettle Creek Mining Company and its patrons were concerned, the
mines could shut down until spring; as to the miners, they knew that they
had neither money nor food to supply them for a month.

He tried to reason with them; but the Hungarians and Polack miners know no
reason. Mr. Hobart's present method of talking with them, to their way of
thinking, betokened not sound common sense and judgment, but fear.

They blustered and threatened and defied. At this, Mr. Hobart arose,
declaring that they might take what course they would, he could _not_
return Ketchomunoski to work. The delegation, expressing their anger in
strong words, departed. Mr. Hobart immediately sent word to Ratowsky,
Ellis and half a dozen other men whom he knew would stand by him. Together
they talked over the situation, cleaned their firearms, and then sent
Ratowsky, by moonlight, down the mountain to purchase and bring back a
supply of ammunition.

By the following evening the strike at Bitumen was on.

CHAPTER XI.

THE PROUD, HUMBLED.

After the midwinter holidays, the question of conducting examinations came
up. Dr. Kitchell had decided that, in view of Miss Hobart's refusing to
take the examination, she could not enter his classes again until she had
explained matters to Dr. Morgan and secured permission from her. Elizabeth
dreaded talking matters over with Dr. Morgan no more than with her father.
Upon her return to Exeter, she immediately visited the president's office,
and explained why she had refused to take the examination. Dr. Morgan was
in a lenient frame of mind. She not only forgave Elizabeth her hasty act,
but took time to explain to her that this was a custom old as examinations
themselves, and a necessity. The explanation satisfied Elizabeth's wounded
feelings but did not alter her view of the method. She told Dr. Morgan of
the conference the girls had held in her room the night before the
holidays and of the plan they had formed which, with the permission of the
principal, they meant to carry out.

Dr. Morgan listened to the plan as Elizabeth gave it in detail, then
replied: "This much can be said of the plan, Miss Hobart. If it proves a
success, it will be a benefit to the students and the school. If it fails,
we are just where we were before--nothing gained or lost. You may try it.
But just a word of advice. Select as your leaders girls in whom the others
have confidence; those who may be trusted to do right; however unpleasant
it may be. Young girls may laugh at and seemingly admire a smart bravado
of manner and sly deceit, but when it comes to being led, they want none
of these. A dozen trustworthy agents will be worth more than a hundred who
are not."

Such advice Miss Cresswell had given Elizabeth the evening of the meeting.
She had already acted upon it according to her best lights, though it was
no easy matter to decide whom to choose. She and her friends worked
slowly. They wished the reformation to be the outcome of deliberate
thought, rather than of impetuous emotion.

Nora O'Day was one of its staunch supporters. At every opportunity she
advocated the acceptance of the new school creed which Elizabeth and Miss
Cresswell had drawn up. Considering the part which she had played in the
examinations the previous spring, her present position was a difficult
one. She knew that her strenuous efforts were looked upon by some with
suspicion. But she continued. She might have become discouraged had she
not known that Miss Cresswell and Elizabeth both understood.

Since that night before the holidays when she had told Elizabeth the cause
of her social ostracism, no mention had been made of the subject. There
had been no change in Elizabeth's manner toward her. Nora began to believe
that Elizabeth cared enough for her to forgive. Her greatest proof of love
for Elizabeth was giving her the essays and theses which had been her
mother's. The memory of this mother was the only bit of real sentiment
that had ever come into the girl's life. She was fond of her father for he
had always been kind to her. As a child, she had idolized him. But as she
grew old enough to learn what character meant, the childish faith died.
She could not put the feeling into words. She was scarcely conscious that
her attitude toward him had changed. But at Exeter she had learned to
blush at the way in which his wealth had been gained. She spoke of him,
but never of his business. She looked upon the simple gifts and loving
letters which Elizabeth received from home with a feeling very much like
envy.

Before the Easter holidays, Mrs. Hobart sent Elizabeth a simple school
suit of her own making. Joe Ratowsky carried it down to Exeter. So many
accidents had occurred on the dinky-road that it had been abandoned until
spring. The mines were closed; and the operators were making no effort to
open them.

Nora was in the room when Elizabeth spread out her new frock on the bed.

"Look at the button-holes!" Elizabeth exclaimed. "Mother always did make
beautiful button-holes. And here," seizing a smaller bundle and unwrapping
it, "if she hasn't embroidered me two lay-over collars to go with it!
Mother always seems to know what I want."

She was already before the mirror laying the bits of embroidered linen in
place to see if they fitted.

Her companion stood by, looking on. She had made no comment. Her
expression was not cheerful. Turning suddenly about, Elizabeth saw the
dubious look.

"You don't like it?" she cried. Then, "I suppose it does look very cheap
beside yours, but--" There was no complaint in her tone.

"Cheap? I wasn't thinking of that. I was only wishing I had one made as
that was made, by someone who took the trouble because they cared for me."
Her voice was tearful. In a moment she might have been crying, but she
hurried to her own room. Her new spring dress had come the day before. She
had spread it out on the couch to show Elizabeth, and it still lay there.
She took it up in her hands, inspecting with care every hook and bit of
trimming. It was beautifully made and of handsome material. But Nora O'Day
was not satisfied. She missed more and more the mother she had never
known. She coveted the plain, simple gown which loving hands had made for
her friend.

Elizabeth wasted no time in putting her frock into use. Dressing
immediately, she went over to Landis' room to talk over the plan of
examinations. Landis had been one of the last interviewed. She was not
what might be called a "charter member." Therefore, it was not surprising
that she had not shown a great amount of enthusiasm when the matter was
broached to her. Playing second fiddle did not suit her ambitious
temperament. She had promised to consider the matter.

That promise had been given a week previously. Elizabeth, who decided most
questions upon the spur of the moment, thought a week was sufficient. Upon
entering Miss Stoner's room, she put the question at once.

"Well, Landis, what are you going to do about joining us?"

Landis looked serious. She sat silent for a few minutes, her gaze fixed
upon a design in the rug, as though she wished to consider well before
replying. At last she spoke and her voice expressed self-confidence and
authority.

"You know me well enough, Elizabeth, to know that I'm always on the side
of what is right. I have thought the matter over and have decided that it
is worthy of success. I do hope it will succeed. That, of course, depends
upon those who are backing it. Yet I can not put my name to it. Now," with
a serious and most impressive air such as Landis only could assume, "do
not misunderstand me. It is not that I do not approve of your plan, think
it needed and all that, but there is a personal reason why I feel that I
cannot join the movement."

"Why,--because you feel that you can not live up to the requirements?" was
the brusque question.

"Hardly. I fancy I do whatever I make up my mind to do. I'm sure living up
to the requirements would be doing just as I have always done."

"Then what is it?"

Again Landis looked serious. Her expression was that of one who could tell
much if they would. Her habit of seeming to weigh her words gave them
undue value. Her hearers expected her to express lofty sentiments.

"I hesitated about speaking of the matter to anyone. It is so easy to be
misunderstood. I would not have anyone think me a cad; but there are some
among your signers whom I object to. I wouldn't care to have my name
appear there with that of another girl whom I have in mind."

To Elizabeth who blurted out everything, and who was frank and out-spoken,
there was nothing more distasteful than insinuations.

"Whom do you mean, Landis?"

"It is not necessary to say," was the response. "I mentioned the fact only
to let you understand that it was not the policy to which I objected. As I
said before, I am on the side of right. I wish my influence always to be
for good."

"But it is necessary to tell. The girls who signed that first petition to
Dr. Morgan are friends of mine. They are girls who stand well in school,
and they're popular, every one of them. You cannot make such a statement
and think that I'm going to let it pass. I'm not. You've insinuated
something against either me or my friends, and you must come straight out
and say what it is."

Min, who had been sitting by the window mending a pair of old gloves for
Landis, gave a nervous giggle. Any little unpleasantness was painful to
her. She stopped sewing to listen to the conversation between the girls.
Landis was not nonplussed, whatever the circumstances. She was not
offended now by Elizabeth's words, but was surprised. She appeared shocked
that Elizabeth should be crude enough to show vehemence.

"What a little spitfire you are, Elizabeth! When you're a few years older
you'll learn not to express yourself so strongly. As to your knowing who
the girl is to whom I object, there is no reason for my keeping silent. I
have not mentioned her name because I was considering her feelings and
reputation. But since you insist, I'll tell you. I must emphatically
object to having my name published over Exeter Hall with Nora O'Day's."

"Why?" Elizabeth asked calmly enough now, yet she was exceedingly
annoyed.

"Why? What a question to ask! Surely you know how dishonorably she acted
last spring! Someone must have told you. You and Mary Wilson are such
friends."

"Yes; someone told me, but it wasn't Mary Wilson. She doesn't do that sort
of thing. Nora O'Day told me. Are you afraid to join the same set with
her?"

"Not afraid in one sense of the word. To be sure, she would not influence
me an iota. I might mingle with her and her kind and be none the worse for
it. Do not think I am considering myself in the matter. I have in mind the
younger set of girls who are so easily influenced. They know the story of
Miss O'Day's methods in examination. What would they think of seeing my
name in connection with hers?--that I would countenance anything that was
dishonorable! If not that, at least, like me, they might be suspicious of
a reform that had among its leaders a girl who had been publicly
reprimanded for cheating."

During the talk, Elizabeth had been leaning backward against the
study-table, her hands behind her, supporting her weight.

She paused before replying to Landis. Then she asked: "Do you believe in
treating every one who has done wrong as you intend treating Nora?"

"Surely. To treat them otherwise would be an open acknowledgment that we
are willing to overlook deceit and fraud. No one can afford to do that.
You must remember the stand Dr. Morgan takes on such matters. You have
heard her lecture often enough to know that she does not countenance
treating sin and crime lightly. Why, in her last chapel-talk she said that
while some amusements might be legitimate and proper for us, we must
refrain from them because of our influencing others who might be harmed.
I'm sure I could find no better person to follow than Dr. Morgan."

"I do not think her words applied to this instance. At least I would not
have taken it so. Nora did cheat last spring; but perhaps she is sorry for
it. You do not know but that she looks upon it now with more scorn than
you do."

"I hope so. I hope Exeter has had some influence upon her."

"Don't you think, Landis, the proper thing to do, when we know she is
ashamed of what she did last spring, is to help her all we can? It seems
so unforgiving to be remembering always the little mean actions. I think
she has suffered enough as it is. I don't see what is to be gained by
slighting her now."

"Perhaps you don't; but this is your first year at Exeter and you have
lots more to learn. When you have been here two years more, perhaps your
ethical standard will be higher."

"Until I am capable of _copying_ other people's essays and passing them
off for my own." Elizabeth's lips had grown white as Landis spoke. Never
before in all her life had she been as angry as now. It was not alone
Landis' words which hurt her, but the girl's manner and tone, which were
most insulting.

For an instant Landis' face grew crimson. Elizabeth's remark had struck
home. Her embarrassment lasted only for a moment. She was her cool,
confident self again.

"I hope you'll never be capable of that," was the rejoinder, spoken
lightly as she moved to her desk and took up a pencil preparatory to
writing. "Exeter is scarcely a place where one learns such methods. One
must have brought the disposition for such things with her."

Elizabeth was not deceived by the light tone of the remark. Having entered
into the discussion, she did not intend to retreat with lowered flag.
However, it was scarcely fair to Landis to put her at a disadvantage in
Min Kean's presence. While Landis was speaking, the situation presented
itself clearly to Elizabeth's mind. She turned to Miss Kean.

"Min, would you care to go over to call on my roommate for a few minutes?
You'll find some home-made candy which mother sent with Joe Ratowsky. I
wish to speak with Landis, and it's really too personal for even you to
hear."

"Why, certainly! I'll take the gloves along and finish my mending there.
But don't quarrel while I'm gone."

"Scarcely," was the reply from Landis. "I never have quarreled with anyone
and I have no desire to begin now." She was much taller than before. She
was really quite an impressive person when she was on her dignity.

"Well?" she asked, turning to Elizabeth as the door closed after Min. Her
manner and facial expression added, "If you have anything to say, you
little insignificant member of the Middlers, say it. Such an august
personage as myself has no time to waste in conversation with a little
girl."

Elizabeth did not falter. "I did not wish Min to hear what I have to say.
She looks up to you as the literary light at Exeter, and I see no reason
to undeceive her. I've known these little facts I'm about to mention since
last holidays; but I've told no one. I would never have brought up the
subject for discussion, even with you, if you had not been so bitter
against Nora. It seems so perfectly ridiculous for you to criticise her
for cheating once in examination when you've kept up the same system for
months."

"I don't know what you mean!"

"You will soon if you do not now. As I have already said, I would have
kept this to myself had you not been insulting to me ever since I came in
this morning. I won't be patronized by anyone that I have no confidence
in. Every one at Exeter praises your fine essays. I used to, but I don't
any more."

"What is the matter with you this morning, Elizabeth? I insulting to you!
The idea was farthest from my thoughts. I'm nervous. I suppose that
accounts for my speaking so you misunderstood me. I'm really working very
hard. I'm anxious to make a creditable passing mark, and then I have Min
to coach. You know she does not grasp lessons so quickly as you and some
of the brighter ones."

But the open flattery did not lead Elizabeth away from the subject. She
had grown years wiser in the six months spent at Exeter. Her knowledge had
cost her much of her girlish confidence.

"I--" she began.

Landis, determined to ignore unpleasant subjects, interrupted with, "Have
you ever been out to the Adams' farm? I suppose you haven't, since this is
your first spring at Exeter. There's a big woods near the house. It is
filled with arbutus. I suppose it is beginning to leaf now. Min and I go
out every spring to spend a day and night. We come home laden with
arbutus. We're going again a week from this coming Saturday. I wish you
and Mary Wilson would go along. We get a livery rig and drive out. Can't
you go with us?"

"No, I--"

"It shall not cost you a cent. Min and I will pay the livery bill."

"Oh, I think I could manage to pay my share," dryly. "It was not that
which made me refuse to accept. I feel in this as you do about Nora O'Day.
I wish to tell you about what I learned last holidays." She talked
hurriedly, allowing Landis no opportunity to interrupt. "Nora O'Day by
chance mentioned that you came to see her and read some of her mother's
theses. Nora did not suspect you. She thought you were inclined to be
literary, and felt pleased that you approved of the work her mother did
years ago. That is all she thought about it. I did more thinking while
Nora was telling me. I thought that Landis Stoner must be a little mite
deceitful or she would not be critical of Nora when others were present
and yet slip in to see her during study-hours. It seemed--well--it seemed
downright deceitful to me.

"I heard you deliver an oration in the chapel. You know that you speak
well, and so you are in every public affair. At least, you have been ever
since I've been at Exeter. Your orations have been fine. I thought you
were wonderfully bright until the Christmas holidays. When I was leaving,
Nora brought me some of her mother's essays to read. I read them while I
was at Windburne."

She paused and looked straight at Landis. Landis had no words to reply.
She stood, dignified and erect by the study-table, toying with a silver
paper-knife. The silence lasted for some minutes. Then feeling that
Elizabeth was waiting for some word she gave a non-committal, "Well?"

"But it isn't 'well.' It is anything but 'well'. It's what I call
decidedly bad. The instant I read those essays, I discovered that your
work was cribbed. You had read--"

"What a fuss you make about nothing at all, Elizabeth! To hear you talk,
one might think that I was guilty of wholesale robbery, or murder, or some
other horrible crime. You young girls who are new to school-life and have
had no experience outside your own little town do not understand these