"I guess it won't," answered Judy. "Nance is learning a thing or two,"

she added to herself.

But all's fair in love and war, and there was no more charming figure on the campus that day than little Otoyo in a pink organdy and a large hat trimmed with pink roses. On her face was an expression of shy, discreet triumph as of one who has gained a victory by stratagem.

The Junior Gambol came to an end at six that evening, and the tired students repaired to their rooms to rest and relax after eight hours of continuous entertaining. The eight friends of old Queen's days had gathered in No. 5 of the Quadrangle, where refreshments were being handed around, chiefly lemonade and hickory-nut cake. Eight limp young women in dressing-gowns draped themselves about the divans and in the arm chairs to discuss the joys of the day.

Molly, at the window, was reading something written on a card tied to the stem of an exceedingly large yellow apple. It was Professor Edwin Green's card, and the inscription thereon read: "The first of the three golden apples was won to-day. Congratulations and best wishes."

Untying the card, she slipped it into her portfolio.

"Shall I divide it or eat it alone?" she asked herself, and, without waiting for the second voice to answer, she seized Judy's silver knife and divided the apple into eight sections, which she pa.s.sed around the company.

"Did this come from the Garden of Hesperides, Molly?" asked Edith Williams, always ready with her cla.s.sic allusions.

"I wouldn't be surprised if it did," answered Molly, smiling mysteriously.

There was much to talk about that evening. It was the moment for reminiscences and they reviewed the past year with all its excitements and pleasures. When Millicent Porter had departed from Wellington in dishonorable flight, her place in the Shakespeareans had been immediately filled, and Judy Kean was the girl selected; which goes to show that after a good deal of suffering and when the edge is taken off the appet.i.te, we generally get what we once earnestly desired. Judy was not excited over the honor paid her, but she acquitted herself creditably in the beautiful performance of "A Winter's Tale," which the society eventually produced.

She sat on the floor now, leaning against Molly, whom, next to her father and mother, she loved best in all the world. Without realizing it herself, Judy's character had been wonderfully developed and strengthened by the events of that winter and she looked on the world with a new and broader vision.

It was nearly bedtime; the night was warm and still and through the open windows came the sound of singing. The girls were silent for a while, too weary to make any more conversation.

"And next year we'll be h.o.a.ry old seniors," suddenly announced Judy, following up a train of thought.

Several in the company sighed audibly. Already the thought of parting from each other and from their beloved Wellington cast a shadow before it.

But this sorrowful last year was to be filled with interest and happy times, as you will see who read the next volume of this series, ent.i.tled "MOLLY BROWN'S SENIOR DAYS."