"A dinner-dance!" repeated Lily, reading her invitation for the third time. "Marj, have you ever been to one?"

"Never!"

"How do you suppose they got Miss Allen's permission?"

"Oh, Miss Phillips saw to that! She can get anything she wants!"

returned Marjorie.

"I hope we beat Miss Martin's team, or we'll feel rather blue. And think of so much in one day--a hockey game with them, and a dinner and a dance with the Boy Scouts! And all the day before we go home for Thanksgiving!"

"Who's your other letter from, Lil?" asked Marjorie, noticing the envelope unopened on the table.

"Oh, I forgot! And I ought to be ashamed. It's from mama."

She read a few lines and her face lighted up happily. "Marj," she said, looking up shyly, "mama and papa want you to spend the Thanksgiving holidays with us. Can you? Oh, please----"

Marjorie threw her arms about Lily, squeezing her for joy.

"I'd love to! I've never been in New York. Oh, if father and mother will only let me!"

"We'll go to the theater, and ride on the bus--and maybe invite John and d.i.c.k there for dinner--and--and----!"

Marjorie let go of her room-mate, and went over to her desk. "I'm going to write home this very minute," she announced, and seated herself to begin the task.

The Boy Scouts had included thirteen girls of the hockey squad in their invitation, and Miss Phillips, of course. Twelve of these girls were Girl Scouts; Alice Endicott, who had not yet made up her chemistry laboratory work, was still outside of Pansy troop.

The hockey game, the dinner-dance, and the holiday preparations made the very air seem to tingle with excitement and antic.i.p.ation. When the day came, Marjorie made no attempt to reserve her energy for the later events; she sang and danced about all morning with happiness. This year she was well prepared to meet Miss Martin's team, not only individually, for she was in good practice and excellent physical trim herself, but as captain of her own team, she felt confident of her players.

The girls were out on the field early, practicing "pa.s.ses," and warming up for the game. Everyone on the team expected to play; but Helen Stewart and Barbara Hill, besides one or two other moderately good players, came in readiness to subst.i.tute should they be needed.

As the team from Miss Martin's approached the field, the critical observer could mark the difference between these girls and those from the home team. Long hikes, sensible clothing and food, and two weeks at the Scout camp with exposure to all kinds of weather, had hardened Miss Allen's girls and added something almost boyish to their bearing. And in Marjorie they had an excellent captain, resourceful and confident of success, whose calm a.s.surance inspired them.

From the opening stroke when Marjorie, the center forward, sent the ball at one bound across the field to her left forward, who dodged the opposing half-back, the game seemed almost a walk-over for Miss Allen's girls. Only once did Miss Martin's side make a goal, and then Lily Andrews took all the blame for it upon herself.

"I thought it was too easy," she afterward explained to Marjorie, "and I didn't work hard enough. It served me right, but I'm sorry for the team."

At the end of the first half, with the score six to two in their favor, Miss Phillips decided to give both the regular subst.i.tutes a chance. But instead of making it easier for the opponents, it became more difficult, for Helen Stewart had always been a good player, and Barbara Hill, who had successful streaks, seemed to be particularly lucky. It was an easy victory for Miss Allen's girls; the final score was fourteen to two.

"This decides me!" exclaimed Miss Martin, after she had congratulated Miss Phillips and her team. "Now I am convinced of the value of a Girl Scout troop."

"If you'd see our reports, you'd be still more convinced," remarked Miss Allen, coming up behind her, and overhearing the remark.

"When can you come over and demonstrate?" pursued the visitor, turning again to the gym teacher.

"Better wait till after Christmas, hadn't we?" suggested Miss Phillips.

"Does that suit you?"

"Perfectly," replied the other.

Marjorie and Lily lingered only long enough to avoid being rude to their guests, and then hurried off to their room to prepare for the party.

"Isn't it fun to be able to wear something besides the Scout uniform?"

remarked Lily, as she removed the muslin with which her pink canton-crepe was covered. "I don't believe the Boy Scouts have ever seen me in anything else! And I'm going to curl my hair."

Marjorie smiled; Lily certainly did look better in pretty dresses, for she was not the type of girl who could wear a uniform to advantage.

They dressed leisurely, and by half-past five were ready to go over to the gymnasium, where they were to meet the other girls. They arrived early, but Ruth and Mae and several others were already there.

"It doesn't seem like an athletic event," remarked Ruth, glancing at the dainty dresses of the girls. "It seems more like a musical comedy."

"And that reminds me," said Miss Phillips, who had just come in, charming in a gray georgette with a lavender girdle, and wearing a bouquet of violets, "that reminds me that I would like the Scouts to give a sort of musical comedy in the spring."

"Great!" cried Ruth. She had a pa.s.sably good voice, and she knew it--also, she knew that Marjorie could scarcely carry a tune.

By this time everyone had arrived, and they all started for the tea-room in the village which the boys had obtained for the occasion. Marjorie was curious to know who gave Miss Phillips her violets, but not daring to tease her, she tried to content herself by whispering about it to Lily.

If the girls, in their pretty party dresses, made a sensation with the boys, the latter, in their turn, appeared very different in their neat, dark suits to the girls, who were so accustomed to seeing them in their official uniforms. There were only thirteen boys present, who had been chosen according to their standing, and Mr. Remington, the Scoutmaster.

The girls descended the stairs, after leaving their wraps in the dressing room, and each boy sought his own particular partner to escort her to the dining-room. Two long tables, each seating fourteen persons, were beautifully decorated with yellow crepe-paper, favors, and large bunches of chrysanthemums in the center. The lights, too, were covered with yellow paper.

"It's lovely!" cried Marjorie with delight. "And hockey season's over, so we can just eat and eat!"

It was a typical Thanksgiving dinner, with turkey and brown gravy, and cranberry sauce. There was only a simple salad but everybody was expected to eat both mince pie and ice-cream, and to finish with nuts, raisins and candy.

"I'll never be able to dance a step," sighed Lily at the conclusion of the feast, as she languidly stirred her coffee.

"We're not going to, for a while," answered David. "For we have other entertainment."

"What?" asked Ruth, overhearing the conversation, and always eager for novelty.

"A fortune teller!" he replied. "She is going to tell all the girls'

fortunes!"

Marjorie clapped her hands. "What fun! Nothing could possibly be nicer,"

she said, happily.

"And will she answer questions?" asked Lily.

"One question for each girl!" said d.i.c.k.

"I know what mine will be!" declared Marjorie, without the least hesitation.

"'Does Princeton miss me?'" teased Ruth.

"Wrong again, Ruth," said Marjorie, shaking her head.

The fortune teller, a real gypsy, arrived in a few moments, and the party adjourned to the dance room to listen. Sitting down upon the floor near the fireplace, she produced a soiled pack of cards; then, addressing the girls one by one, she painted glorious futures for them, with ocean trips, "dark" or "blond" men, letters, and inheritances. It was all good fun, and most of the girls did not take her seriously.

Their favorite question was, of course, "Will I get married?" to which the woman invariably answered "Yes"--or, sometimes, "Twice!"