be among the first to join."

"Yes, I know. But isn't it dreadfully hard to get on the hockey team? With so many upper classmen, I mean?"

By this time Mildred Cavin, Daisy Gravers, and Esther Taylor—three more freshmen—had joined them. Evelyn Hopkins, Ruth Henry's room-mate, who had missed making both the sorority and the Scout troop the previous year, sauntered up, just as Florence asked the question.

"It's an impossibility!" she exclaimed, pettishly. "At least, if you're not in right with Miss Phillips, the Gym teacher who is Captain of the troop, you don't stand one bit of show!"

Marjorie colored at the words and the tone of this statement; she so much desired that her classmates appear dignified and well-poised to the freshmen.

Esther Taylor, a stylish girl with a flippant manner, laughed derisively. "Scouts don't mean much in my young life," she said, defiantly. "I'm no soldier-girl!"

Marjorie did not feel ready to go into the explanation of what Girl Scouts really stand for; she merely arched her brows and looked away indifferently. To her relief, the orchestra struck up a one-step, and the girls all separated to dance.

Games and dancing followed alternately, until the groups were entirely broken up, and everyone was acquainted. It was half-past nine when an intermission was called for refreshments to be served.

The sophomores disappeared into a screened corner to procure the ice-cream for their guests, and while they were waiting for plates, Marjorie again encountered Ruth.

"It's my opinion," remarked the latter, "that we've struck a bunch of lemons! I haven't met a single girl so far that has pep enough to organize a secret class meeting, or put up any kind of a fight against us sophomores! Why, I don't believe there will be one girl in the whole freshman class who'll make the Girl Scout troop!"

"I'd be willing to bet a box of the best chocolates made that Edith Evans' sister makes it!" retorted Marjorie. "She's just the type!"

"I guess you're right," admitted Ruth; "but if you'd ever talk to that funny little thing over near the piano, you'd be disgusted with freshmen, too. She sort of keeps her mouth open, as if she weren't quite all there, and makes the queerest replies—or else none at all. But she's the most hopeless one I've struck yet."

"Who is she?" asked Marjorie, peeping around the screen and looking towards the orchestra. "That little girl in pink?"

"Yes—with the scared look."

"What's her name?"

"Alice Endicott," answered Ruth. Then, "But why all this interest, Marj?"

"No special reason, except that I'm sorry for anybody that is lonely. I think I'll try to make friends with her."

"You always did enjoy the 'Big Sister' act, didn't you?" jeered Ruth. A sarcastic little gleam came into her eyes. "How about Frieda Hammer?" she asked, pointedly. "She didn't turn up, did she?"

Ruth referred to the country girl whose father had worked on the farm where the Scout camp was situated the previous summer. The girl had come to the kitchen tent three separate times, at night, and upon each occasion had stolen a great deal of food. Upon the final occurrence she had been detected and identified, but although she had admitted the theft to Miss Phillips when she was later accused, she made no attempt at apology or explanation. The girl's ignorance, her wildness, her lack of advantages, had touched the pity of Marjorie and Frances, and some of the other softer-hearted Scouts; accordingly, the troop had voted to send Frieda to public school in the fall, assuming her support as their public Good Turn. Marjorie had been tremendously enthusiastic over the project, while Ruth, on the other hand, had thrown cold water upon it from the beginning. Now that the girl had not appeared as she had promised, Ruth felt elated; Marjorie, in her turn, was equally cast down.

"She may come yet!" she answered, defiantly, putting more hope into her tone than she really entertained. "Mrs. Brubaker wrote to Miss Phillips that Frieda's baby sister was sick! So probably she'll come in a week or so."

Marjorie succeeded in obtaining two plates of ice-cream and some cakes, and, holding them high above the heads of the crowd, made her way to the distant corner indicated by Ruth. She found the freshman still sitting alone, half hidden by an overhanging evergreen, gazing dejectedly into space.

"Pardon me," said Marjorie pleasantly, "may I give you some ice-cream?"

The girl looked up suddenly, and for an instant her brown eyes met Marjorie's. She seemed pale and thin, and her eyes appeared unusually large and liquid, as if tears were never far from the surface.

"Thank you," she muttered, rising and taking the plate.

"And may I sit with you?" continued the older girl. "At least, if you are not expecting——"

"No, no; nobody is with me!" She flushed painfully at the reference to her own unpopularity.

"Ruth Henry said she was just talking to you," said Marjorie hastily, trying to cover her embarrassment. "And your name is Alice Endicott, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"And who is your room-mate?" pursued Marjorie, wondering why the girl, whoever she was, should desert Alice, knowing how shy she was.

"Esther Taylor," replied the freshman; "but she doesn't bother much with me."

It was obvious that poor little Alice was both homesick and lonely, and Marjorie's heart warmed toward her as it might to a lost child. She chatted pleasantly all through the intermission; then, securing her a partner for the next dance, she left with the promise to seek her again.

When the party was all over, and the tired sophomores were getting ready for bed, Marjorie, who still felt the sting of Ruth's taunt, remarked to Lily,

"Well, if we can't do our Good Turn for Frieda Hammer, we can do one right here for the new girls, to keep them from being homesick. I, for one, intend to try."

"I'm with you," agreed Lily, as she crawled into bed.

But Ruth Henry's last waking thoughts were of a different nature: how she might best succeed in gaining the class presidency for herself.

"If I go at the thing boldly," she decided, "there is no reason why I should fail. And I mean to do it, if I never accomplish another thing as long as I'm at Miss Allen's!"

CHAPTER II

THE SOPHOMORE PRESIDENT

"Are you going to dress for Ruth's tea?" asked Doris Sands of Marjorie Wilkinson, as the girls walked out of the dining-room together.

Marjorie pulled down the corners of her mouth at the question. It did seem strange to her that Ruth Henry should have decided in such a hurry to give a tea. There must be something behind it! Probably the girl was making a play for popularity, so that she might be elected to an office.

"I'm not going. It's just at the time of hockey practice, and, of course, I couldn't miss that. Lily won't be there, either."

"I'm sorry!" murmured Doris. "Things never seem half so nice without you, Marj!"

Marjorie smiled gratefully; Doris Sands not only said pleasant things, but one knew that she meant them. It was too bad that the class constitution prohibited a girl's re-election as president. The sophomore class could never find anyone else so tactful, so universally popular as Doris, Marjorie thought.

"Thanks, Doris," she said. "But I don't see why Ruth couldn't give us more notice, so that we might have arranged things to go. She never said a word about it at the reception!"