"Where have you been? Give an account of yourself."

"I have been hearing the true story of Elizabeth's room-mate. I suppose you know by this time that she is to go home early tomorrow?"

Both girls nodded.

"After our entertainment I went upstairs to Aunt Mary's room. We were talking, when Professor Arnold came to the door. She called Aunt Mary into the hall, and stood there for some time. I could not help hearing a part of what was said, so, when aunty came back, she told me the full story, and said that I might tell you. We are not to repeat it to the other girls, but, of course, they will be told in chapel that Miss Ainsworth has been sent home."

"Yes, well?"

"It seems that Professor Graydon has noticed how very restless Margery has seemed this week. From several little things, she decided that Miss Ainsworth would try to slip away when we were all in the College Hall, and so she kept a careful watch on her. Patrick knew about it, too, and when he saw her slip out of the side gate and run off toward the city, he went after her. He met one of the maids and sent word back to Professor Graydon. Mrs. Carruther's carriage was at the college, and Professor Graydon got into it and soon overtook Patrick.

He was standing outside a boarding-house on Summit Avenue, looking as perplexed as he well could look. He didn't like to go in and order Margery out; he had no right or business to do that, and, of course, it never would have done. So he just stood outside and wondered what was the right thing for him to do. I reckon" (Mary still lapsed into her favorite idioms at times) "that he was mighty glad when he saw Professor Graydon in the carriage. She rang the bell at once and asked for Miss Ainsworth. I imagine that there was a very stormy scene inside, but of course Professor Arnold was in too great a hurry to tell Aunt Mary all the details. Presently Professor Graydon came out with Margery and took her to the president's room. They managed to get the full story out of Margery at last. It seems that there is a young lady at the boarding-house, a Miss Lampton, very proud and flashy and fast; Margery knew her in New York, and the two became quite intimate before Margery's parents found out about it. The girl has been mixed up in several scandals. She went to Boston once in a smoking-car and smoked cigarettes all the way. You can imagine what sort of a girl she is from that."

"I wouldn't want to imagine," broke in Dolly disgustedly. "How could Miss Ainsworth ever tolerate her?"

"Birds of a feather," said Beth wisely. "But we must let Mary tell her story and then get to bed."

"Yes, it is horribly late. Well, as soon as the Ainsworths found out the sort of girl she was, they tried to break off the intimacy, but Margery kept contriving to meet her places, and there was a brother who was just as bad--worse, in fact. So, finally, Margery was sent here to college to get her away from them. She was told not to correspond with either, but there is no surveillance on the letters here, and Margery corresponded all last year with them both, though her parents never knew it. This fall Miss Lampton decided to come here and board for a while. She had just gotten into a sc.r.a.pe that was a little worse than usual in New York, and I suppose she thought she had better go away till the talk blew over."

"Has the girl no parents?"

"No, only an aunt, who acts as sort of a figurehead, and who has no control over either Miss Lampton or her brother. So she came here to board last fall, and of course wrote to Miss Ainsworth as soon as she came. That is where Beth's room-mate has gone whenever she has disappeared in town."

"That is certainly bad enough, but it is not as bad as I feared it might be."

"You haven't heard the worst yet, Elizabeth. Every little while the brother came down, and at last he and Margery decided that they were in love with each other, and do you know that they had planned an elopement for this very night?"

The girls gave a cry of horror.

"Yes, that is absolutely true. If Elizabeth had not let me tell Aunt Mary, so that the faculty was on guard, you see what a dreadful thing would have happened. Now they have telegraphed to Mr. Ainsworth, and Professor Arnold will not leave Margery until she is safe with her father."

"How dreadful it all is," and then, despite the lateness of the hour, the girls talked the matter over until there came a light tap at their door.

Professor Arnold looked in. "We are not going to be very strict tonight with you freshmen, after you have just achieved such a triumph at your entertainment, but there is really reason in all things, and I advise you to have your light out and to be in bed within five minutes."

"Yes'm," three voices responded meekly, and then there was hurried scrambling and the freshmen settled down for the night.

The next afternoon saw the three girls at Dolly's home. The following day brought Fred and his two friends, and there was a lively time until Christmas.

Christmas morning found them all down in the library, bright and early.

The subject of Christmas gifts had troubled Dolly a little, because she feared lest Mary and Mr. Steele might feel that they had no part in the good times.

"You see, mamma, that I want to give Mary something as nice as I do Beth, but I know that Mary has hardly any money to spend for presents, and I do not want her to feel mean or awkward about it. And then there is Mr. Steele; he certainly cannot afford to do much in that line, either, and yet, of course, we want to remember him. What shall we do?"

"Just get what your good sense dictates, without thinking of their presents at all. You do not give for what will be given to you. You give for the pleasure of giving. Don't think of that phase of the question.

As for Mr. Steele, I feel that we owe him more than we can ever repay."

"How so, mamma?"

"He has great influence over Fred, and he has certainly helped him to keep steady at college."

"Oh, mamma, you do not mistrust Fred?"

"I know how much Fred likes a good time, dear. Sometimes he takes it without thinking of consequences. I rather dreaded college for him; but he is growing much more independent and self-reliant."

"Fred is a darling, and you know it, mamma."

"Of course, but I can see his weaknesses, and so I am glad that he has taken a liking to Robert Steele. I intend to do my best to have this Christmas one that he will like to remember."

There could be no doubt at all but that she succeeded. There was a load of pretty remembrances for everyone. Rob Steele had been bothered somewhat, too, over the question of gifts. Fortunately, while not an artist, he had some skill with brush and pencil, and after considerable cogitating, he devoted his few spare moments to painting some dainty marine views in water colors; he had these inexpensively framed, and told himself that he would not worry; he had done the best he could, though, of course, his trifles were not to be mentioned in the same breath as the elegant presents which Martin would buy.

But on Christmas morning, Bob Steele found that his little gifts received much more attention than the handsome ones that d.i.c.k Martin had given.

And even Mary Sutherland, with all her supersensitiveness, never thought of comparing the relative value of the inexpensive books she had given, with the very beautiful m.u.f.f, handkerchiefs, ribbons and laces which she found in her Christmas corner.

There were no heart-burnings and no jealousies. The only drawback to the day, as Fred declared, was the thought that the party would be partially broken up on the morrow. d.i.c.k Martin was going back to Boston.

Mary would join her aunt at college for a little trip, and Dolly and Beth would leave for Philadelphia. Fred grumbled considerably at such a scattering of the congenial party, but there was no help for it. Rob Steele would stay with him until Harvard reopened, and Dolly and Beth might be able to stay over night on their way back to Westover.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A moment later Dolly had been introduced to Beth's father]

When Dolly found herself actually on the train next day, bound for Philadelphia, she wondered more and more to what kind of a home she was going. Beth grew more quiet and sedate as they neared the city, and the reserved, rather hard expression which she had partially lost of late, was intensified.

As they entered the main gate at the Broad Street Station, a tall, handsome man took Beth's valise from her hand and bent to kiss her. A moment later Dolly had been introduced to Beth's father. A carriage was waiting for them outside the station, and as they drove to Beth's home, Dolly scrutinized Mr. Newby's features closely, trying hard to find therein the explanation of much that had mystified her in Beth.

He was evidently a man of culture and brains. Dolly could not imagine him in a temper or exhibiting any lack of self-control. Why did he and Beth not chatter more familiarly, though? He was asking questions about the college in the same fashion that he might have asked them of Dolly herself, and Beth was replying in the same formal, courteous way. Even Mr. Newby's kiss of welcome at the station had seemed a perfunctory duty-kiss, not at all like the spontaneous ones given by Dolly's father.

And Beth could chatter fast enough! Why wasn't she doing it now? Though, if Dolly had only known it, both Beth and her father were making a great effort to have the conversation lively and animated.

Dolly had gained no light when they reached the pleasant suburban home where the Newbys lived. On the broad veranda she could see a lovely, gracious woman and three children.

They must be Roy, Hugh and Nell, she knew. The carriage drove rapidly up the lawn along the smooth driveway. Mrs. Newby hastened to meet them. She kissed Beth a little wistfully, Dolly thought, and gave Dolly herself a very cordial, hearty welcome. The children were well-mannered and decidedly attractive. Dolly fancied that Roy did not look very strong. Mrs. Newby took them upstairs presently. She had given the girls adjoining rooms, and went in with them to see that everything was in perfect readiness. The house was roomy and delightful, and Dolly drew in a deep breath of surprise and enjoyment. "How nice your home is, Beth. You funny child, never to have told me anything about it."

"I'm glad you like it. How about the people in it?"

"How do I like them, do you mean? Why, I have hardly seen them yet, you know, but I think that you must feel proud of your father; and Mrs. Newby has one of the sweetest faces I ever saw. The children seem very nice, and you know how I love children."

"Yes, I know--well, I am glad if you like us and our home."

That was all Beth said. Dolly watched quietly and shrewdly. Something was ajar, and she longed to know if it were not something that could be adjusted. Whatever it was, it was spoiling Beth's life. But she could see nothing. Beth was as reserved as ever, even in her own home. Both of her parents seemed to treat her more as a guest than as a daughter of the house. Her wishes were consulted, and she was deferred to more as a stranger would be, Dolly thought, than as a daughter whose preferences they were supposed to know.

Everyone was polite and courteous. It was not a household that would ever tolerate quarreling or strife. Yet there was something lacking.

They all seemed anxious that Dolly should have a good time, and there were many pleasant little plans for her entertainment. Dolly grew to like them all, but she was especially fond of Mrs. Newby. She often wondered why Beth did not adore her stepmother, she was so gracious and kind, so just and generous.

The vacation days pa.s.sed all too rapidly for the girls. They would go back the next day, and Dolly was no nearer discovering the "rift within the lute" that served to make the music mute, than she had been on the day of her arrival. She concluded that she would never be any wiser, but that evening an incident happened that gave her a glimpse of Beth's hidden life.

CHAPTER IX