Hardly a minute had gone by, but more slowly than a minute ever went before, when Eleanor was on her feet. She had grown suddenly white, and her eyes had a hunted, strained look. "I quite agree with Miss Harrison," she said in clear, ringing tones, her head held high. "I am not worthy of this honor. I withdraw my name, and I ask Miss Ayres, as a personal favor, to subst.i.tute some one's else."

Eleanor sat down, and Marie wet her lips nervously and looked at Madeline. "Please, Miss Ayres," she begged.

"As a personal favor," returned Madeline slowly, "because Eleanor Watson asks me, I subst.i.tute"--she paused--"Christy Mason's name. I am sure that Miss Mason will allow it to be used, as a personal favor to every one concerned."

"Indeed I----" began Christy impetuously. Then she met Eleanor's beseeching eyes. "Very well," she said, "but every one here except Miss Harrison knows that Miss Watson would be far better."

It took only a minute to elect Christy and adjourn the ill-fated meeting.

"I thought she'd feel like hurrying home," said Katherine sardonically, as the Champion, very red and militant, rushed past her toward the door.

Betty looked wistfully after the retreating figure. "I would rather have left college than had her say that. It doesn't seem fair--after everything."

"Serves me right, anyhow," broke in Madeline despondently. "I was dreaming about castles in Italy instead of tackling the business in hand. If I had thought more I should have known that some freak would seize the opportunity to rake up old scores. Don't feel so bad, Betty.

It was my fault, and I'll make it up to her somehow. Come and help me tell Christy that she's a trump, and that I truly wanted her, next to Eleanor."

When they had pushed their way through to Christy's side, Eleanor, still white but smiling bravely, was shaking hands. "It was awfully good of you not to mind the little awkwardness," she was saying. "The girls always want you--you know that." She turned to find Betty standing beside her, looking as if her heart was broken.

"Why, Betty Wales," she laughed, "cheer up. You've made the speech of the day, and three of your best friends are waiting to be congratulated.

Tell Christy how pleased you are that she's toastmistress and then come down town with me."

Once out of the crowded room Eleanor grew silent, and Betty, too hurt and angry to know what to offer in the way of comfort, left her to her own thoughts. They had crossed the campus and were half way down the hill when Eleanor spoke.

"Betty," she said, "please don't care so. If you are going to feel this way, I don't think I can bear it."

Betty stared at her in astonishment. "Why Eleanor, it's you that I care about. I can't bear to have you treated so."

Eleanor smiled sadly. "And can't you see--no, of course you can't, for you never did a mean or dishonorable thing in your life. If you had, you would know that the worst part of the disgrace, is that you have to share it with your friends. I don't mind for myself, because what Miss Harrison said is true."

"No, it's not," cried Betty hotly. "Not another girl in the whole cla.s.s feels so."

"That," Eleanor went on, "is only because they are kind enough to be willing to forget. But to drag you in, and dear old Madeline, and all 'The Merry Hearts'! You'll be sorry you ever took me in."

"Nonsense!" cried Betty positively. "Everybody knows that you've changed--everybody, that is, except that hateful Miss Harrison, and some day perhaps she'll see it."

That evening Betty explained to Helen, who had never heard a word of the "Argus" matter, why Eleanor had not been made an editor.

"Do you think there were any others to-day who didn't want her?" she asked anxiously.

Helen hesitated. "Ye-es," she admitted finally. "I think that Miss Harrison has some friends who feel as she does. I heard them whispering together. And one girl spoke to me. But I am sure they were about the only ones. Most of the girls feel dreadfully about it."

"Of course no one who didn't would say anything to me," sighed Betty.

"Oh, Helen, I am so disappointed."

"Well," returned Helen judicially, "it can't be helped now, and in a way it may be a good thing. Eleanor will feel now that everybody who counts for much in the cla.s.s understands, and perhaps there will be something else to elect her for, before the year is out."

Betty shook her head. "No, it's the last chance. She wouldn't take anything after this, and anyway no one would dare to propose her, and risk having her insulted again."

"I guess we shan't any of us be tempted to do anything dishonest," said Helen primly. "Doesn't it seem to you as if the girls were getting more particular lately about saying whether they got their ideas from books and giving their authorities at the end of their papers?"

"Yes," said Betty, "it does, and I think it's a splendid thing. I went to a literary club meeting with Nan last Christmas and one of the papers was copied straight out of a book I'd just been reading, almost word for word. I told Nan and she laughed and said it was a very common way of doing. I think Harding girls will do a good deal if they help put a stop to that kind of thing. But that won't be much comfort to Eleanor."

When Helen had gone, Betty curled up on her couch to consider the day.

"Mixed," she told the little green lizard, "part very nice and part perfectly horrid, like most days in this world, I suppose, even in your best beloved senior year. I wonder if Prexy will like the scholarship idea. I straightened out one snarl, and then I helped make a worse one.

And I shall be in another if I don't set to work this very minute,"

ended Betty, reaching for her Stout's Psychology.

CHAPTER III

THE BELDEN HOUSE "INITIATION PARTY"

Lucile Merrifield, Betty's stately soph.o.m.ore cousin, and Polly Eastman, Lucile's roommate and dearest friend, sat on Madeline Ayres's bed and munched Madeline's sweet chocolate complacently.

"Wish I had cousins in Paris that would send me 'eats' as good as this,"

sighed Polly.

"Isn't it just too delicious!" agreed Lucile. "I say, Madeline, I'm on the soph.o.m.ore reception committee and there aren't half enough soph.o.m.ores to go round among the freshmen. Won't you take somebody?"

"I? Hardly." Madeline shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. "Don't you know, child, that I detest girl-dances--any dances for that matter. Ask me to do something amusing."

"You ought to want to do something useful," said Polly reproachfully.

"Think of all those poor little friendless freshmen!"

"What kind of a cla.s.s is it this year?" inquired Madeline, lazily, breaking up more chocolate. "Any fun?"

"The chief thing I've noticed about them," said Lucile, "is that they're so horribly numerous."

"Fresh?" asked Madeline.

"Yes, indeed," declared Polly emphatically, "dreadfully fresh. But somehow,--I'm on the grind committee, you know,--and they don't do anything funny. They just do quant.i.ties and quant.i.ties of stupid, commonplace things, like mistaking the young faculty for freshmen and expecting Miss Raymond to help them look up their English references. I just wish they'd think of something original," ended Polly dolefully.

"Why don't you make up something?" asked Madeline.

Polly stared. "Oh, I don't think that would do at all. The grinds are supposed to be true, aren't they? They'd be sure to find out and then they'd always dislike us." Polly smiled luminously. "I've got a good many freshmen friends," she explained.

"Which means violet-bestowing crushes, I suppose," said Madeline severely. "You shouldn't encourage that sort of thing, Polly. You're too young."

"I'm not a bit younger than Lucile," Polly defended herself, "and they all worship her." Polly giggled. "Only instead of violets, they send her Gibson girls, with touching notes about her looking like one."

"Come now," said Lucile calmly. "That's quite enough. Let Madeline tell us how to get some good grinds."

Madeline considered, frowning. "Why if you won't make up," she said at last, "the only thing to do is to lay traps for them. Or no--I'll tell you what--let's give an initiation party."

"A what?" chorused her guests.