Marjorie Dean, High School Junior.

by Pauline Lester.

CHAPTER I-MARJORIE DECLARES HERSELF

"Only to think, next week, at this time, I'll be saying good-bye to you, Mary Raymond." Marjorie Dean's brown eyes rested very wistfully on the sunny-haired girl beside her in the big porch swing.

"You know now, just how dreadfully I felt two years ago when I had to keep thinking about saying good-bye to you," returned Mary in the same wistful intonation. "It was terrible. And after you had gone! Well-it was a good deal worse. Oh, Marjorie, I wish I could live this last year over again. If only--"

Marjorie laid light fingers on Mary's lips. "You mustn't speak of some things, Lieutenant," she said quickly. "If you do I won't listen. Forget everything except the wonderful summer we've had together."

Mary caught the soft little hand in both hers. "It _has_ been wonderful," she agreed rather unsteadily. "I'll have the memory of it to treasure when I'm away off in Colorado. I can't believe that I am really going so far away from you. I hope I'll like the West. Next summer you must come out there and visit me, Marjorie. By that time I'll be a little bit at home in such a strange, new country."

"I'd love to do that," responded Marjorie with an eagerness that merged almost immediately again into regretful reflection.

A sad little silence fell upon the two in the porch swing. Each young heart was heavy with dread of the coming separation. This was the second time in two years that the call to say farewell had sounded for Marjorie Dean and Mary Raymond.

Those who have followed Marjorie Dean through her freshman and soph.o.m.ore years at high school are already familiar with the details of Mary's and Marjorie's first separation. In "Marjorie Dean, High School Freshman,"

was recorded the story of the way in which Marjorie had come to leave her chum at the beginning of their first year in Franklin High School, in the city of B--, to take up her residence in the far-off town of Sanford, there to become a freshman at Sanford High. In her new home she had made many friends, chief among them Constance Stevens, to whom she had been greatly drawn by reason of a strong resemblance between Constance and Mary. In an earnest endeavor to bring sunshine to the former's poverty-stricken lot she had thereby involved herself in a series of school-girl difficulties, which followed her throughout the year. True to herself, Marjorie met them bravely and conquered them, one by one, proving herself a staunch follower of the high code of honor she had adopted for her own.

With the advent of Mary Raymond into her home for a year's stay, Marjorie was confronted by a new and painful problem. "Marjorie Dean, High School Soph.o.m.ore," found Marjorie enmeshed in the tangled web which Mary's jealousy of Constance Stevens wove about the three girls. Led into bitter doubt of Marjorie by Mignon La Salle, a mischief-making French girl who had made Marjorie's freshman days miserable, Mary Raymond had been guilty of a disloyalty, which had come near to estranging the two girls forever. It was not until their soph.o.m.ore year was almost over that an awakening had come to Mary, and with it an earnest repentance, which led to equity and peace.

It was to this which Mary had been about to refer mournfully when Marjorie's gentle hand had sealed her repentant utterance. All that summer the two girls had been earnestly engaged in trying to make up for those lost days. Constance and Mary were now on the most friendly terms.

The three had spent an ideal month together at the seash.o.r.e, with no hateful shadow to darken the pleasure of that delightful outing. Later Constance had left them to spend the remainder of her vacation with her family in the mountains. The Deans had lingered in their seaside cottage until the last of August. Now September had arrived, her hazy hints of coming Autumn reminding the world at large that their summer playtime was over.

To Mary Raymond it was a pertinent reminder that her days under the Deans' hospitable canopy were numbered. In fact, only seven of them remained. On the next Friday morning she would say her last farewells to speed away to Denver, Colorado, where, on her invalid mother's account, the Raymonds were to make their home. So it is scarcely to be wondered at that Marjorie and Mary were decidedly melancholy, as they sat hand in hand, bravely trying to meet the trial which lay before them.

"I wonder if Jerry will come home to-day." Marjorie rose from the swing with an abruptness that set it to swaying gently. The weight of parting had grown heavier during that brief silence and she was very near to tears.

"I don't know. Her letter said Thursday or Friday, didn't it?" Mary's voice shook slightly. She, too, was on the verge of a breakdown.

"Yes." Marjorie's back was toward Mary as she answered. She walked to the end of the s.p.a.cious veranda and gazed down the pebbled drive. Just then she felt as though the sight of Geraldine Macy's round, good-humored face would be most welcome. Slowly returning to where Mary still sat, she said: "As this is Friday, Jerry will surely--"

"Marjorie!" called a clear voice from within the house. "The telephone is ringing."

"Coming, Captain!" Marjorie quickened to sudden action. "I hope it's Jerry," she flung over her shoulder as she ran to the open door. "Come on, Mary."

Mary needed no second invitation. By the time Marjorie had reached the telephone, she was only a step behind her chum.

"h.e.l.lo! Yes, this is Marjorie. Oh, Jerry!" Marjorie gave a little squeal of delight. "We were just talking of you. We wondered if you'd be home to-day. Won't you come over now? You will? Well, then, hurry as fast as ever you can. We're crazy to see you. Mary wants to talk to you. Just say 'h.e.l.lo' to her and hang up the receiver." Marjorie cast a playful glance at the girl beside her. "You can talk to her when you get here."

Marjorie held the receiver toward Mary, who greeted Jerry in brief but affectionate fashion and obediently hung up. "Always do as your superior officer tells you," she commented with a smile.

"That's pure sarcasm," retorted Marjorie gaily. "The question is, am I your superior officer or are you mine? This business of both being lieutenants has its drawbacks. We can never know just who's who."

"I ought to be second lieutenant and you first," demurred Mary soberly.

"I didn't deserve to become a first with you last June after--"

"Mary!" Marjorie cried out in distressed concern. Her brown eyes were filled with tender reproach. "Aren't you ever going to forget?"

"I can't." Mary turned her face half away, then the flood of sadness she had been fighting back all afternoon overtook her. Stumbling to the stairs she sat down on the lowest step, her face hidden in her hands, her shoulders shaking.

"Poor, dear Lieutenant." Her own eyes overflowing, Marjorie dropped down beside Mary and wound her arms about the dejected figure.

"This is a nice reception! I see I shall have to welcome myself. Why, how are you, Geraldine? Boo, hoo! It's a wonder you wouldn't ring. You never did have any manners. I don't see why you called, anyway. Boo, hoo!"

The first sound of a loud, cheerful voice brought the weepers to their feet. A loud, anguished "Boo, hoo!" sent them into half tearful giggles.

"That's more like it," approved the stout girl in the doorway, her round face alive with kindly solicitude. "If I had sensitive feelings I might think you were crying because you'd invited me to call. But I haven't.

Hal says I am the most unfeeling person he knows. He only says that when his little sister can't see things the way he does."

Jerry rattled off these pleasantries while in the midst of a rapturous embrace, bestowed upon her plump person by two now broadly-smiling mourners.

"It's splendid to see you again, Jerry," caroled Marjorie, hugging her friend with bearish enthusiasm. Mary echoed Marjorie's fervent greeting.

"The mere sight of me is always inspiring," grinned Jerry, winding an arm about each friend. "I hope you have both noticed by this time that I am a great deal thinner than I was last June. I've lost two pounds.

Isn't that some lose?"

"Perfectly remarkable," agreed Marjorie mischievously. "Come on out on the veranda, Jerry. We have such a lot to talk about."

Four determined, affectionate arms propelled Jerry to the wide, vine-decked porch, established her in the big porch swing, and climbed in beside her.

"Now, tell me, children, why these weeps?" Jerry demanded practically, still retaining her loving hold of her two friends.

"They've been on the way all day," confessed Marjorie. "We've both tried not to cry, but-somehow--" Her voice faltered. "You see, Jerry, this is Mary's and my last week together. Mary's going away off to Colorado next week."

"You don't mean it?" Jerry sat up very straight, looking wide-eyed concern. "You never said a thing about it in your letter. I mean letters. I believe you did write me two." Jerry registered comical accusation.

"Don't remind me of my sins of omission," Marjorie laughed, flushing a trifle. "I always mean to write, but somehow I never do. We didn't know until the week before we came from the seash.o.r.e that Mary would have to go so soon. We thought it wouldn't be until November." Again her tones quavered suspiciously.

"I see." Jerry frowned to hide her own inclination to mourn. During the brief time they were thrown together, after the reunion of Marjorie and Mary, she had learned to know and love the real Mary Raymond. "I'm more sorry than I can say. I thought we'd all be together for our junior year at Sanford High."

"Of course, I am anxious to be with mother and father," put in Mary loyally, "but I hate to leave Sanford. There are lots of things I meant to do this year that I didn't do last year."

"But you can't be in two places at once," was Jerry's blunt consolation.

"Never mind, Mary, you can come back to visit us and we'll write you lots of letters. Marjorie is such a splendid correspondent." Her accompanying jolly chuckle robbed this last pertinent fling of offence.

"We'll write you all the news. That reminds me, I've some for you girls.

You'll never guess who stayed at the same hotel with us this summer. I didn't write about it, because I wanted to have it to tell when I came home."

Mary cast a sidelong glance at the stout girl. There had been a faint touch of disgust in Jerry's intonation. "Was it-Mignon?" she asked, half hesitant.

"Right you are. How did you guess it?"

"Oh, I just wondered," was Mary's brief response. A tide of red had risen to her white skin, called there by distressing memories.

"Yes, it was our dear Mignon," continued Jerry briskly. "And she has a friend, Rowena Farnham, who likewise stayed at our hotel. Believe me, they were a well-matched pair. You see the La Salles usually go to Severn Beach every summer, but they always stay at Cliff House. We always go to the Sea Gull. That's the whole length of the beach from their hotel. Imagine how pleased I was to see Mignon come parading down to dinner one evening, after we'd been there about two weeks. I was so disgusted that I wanted my father to pack up and move us over to Cliff House. But he wouldn't, the hard-hearted person.