Betty Wales Senior

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The ferryman considered. "I dunno."

Babbie's horse plunged again.

"Can we wade to shore?" asked the groom, when something like order was
restored.

"Easy. You see I knew the river was awful low, but I s'posed----"

"The only thing that I can think of," interrupted the groom, "is for us
to leave you girls with the horses, while we get to shore. Then you send
'em off one by one, and we'll catch 'em. Miss Hildreth, you send yours
first. No, Miss Wales, you send mine first, then Miss Hildreth's may
follow better. I'm awfully sorry to make you young ladies so much
trouble."

"Oh, it doesn't matter," said Babbie bravely, shaking the water out of
her eyes. "Only--do hurry, please."

The "easy wading" proved to be through water up to a man's shoulders,
and it lightened twice, with the usual consequences to Babbie's horse,
before the groom signaled. His horse went off easily enough, but
Babbie's balked and then reared, and Betty's lay down first and then
kicked viciously, when she and Babbie between them had succeeded in
getting him to stand up. Finally Madeline broke her crop in getting him
over the side, and when Black Beauty had also been sent ashore the ferry
lurched a little and floated.

"Do you suppose we shall ever get dry again?" asked Eleanor lightly,
while they waited for the ferryman to come back to them.

Babbie touched her black coat gingerly. "Am I wet?" she whispered to
Betty. "Of course I am, but I'd forgotten it." The reins had cut one of
her hands through her heavy glove, but she had forgotten that too, as
she shivered and clung to the railing that Black Beauty had splintered
when he went over. All she could think of was the horror of riding that
plunging, foam-flecked horse home.

The ferryman took them to his house, which was the nearest one to the
landing; and while he and the groom rubbed down the horses, his wife and
little daughter made more coffee for the girls and helped them wring out
their dripping clothes.

Babe pretended to find vast enjoyment in watching the water trickle off
her skirts and gaiters. Christy, who rode bare-headed, declared that she
had gotten a beautiful shampoo free of charge. Even Babbie smiled
faintly and called attention to the "mountain tarn" splashing about in
the brim of her tri-corn hat.

"I tell ye, them girls air game," declared the ferryman watching them
ride off as soon as the storm was over. "That little slim one on the bay
mare is a corker. Her horse cut up somethin' awful. They all offered to
change with her, but she said she guessed she could manage. Look at the
way she sets an' pulls. She's got grit all right. I guess I'll have to
make out to have you go to college, Annie."

Whereupon little Annie spent a rapturous evening dreaming of the time
when she should be a Harding girl, and be able to say bright, funny
things like Miss Ayres. She resolved to wear her hair like Miss Watson
and to have a pleasant manner like Miss Wales, and above all to be
"gritty" like Miss Hildreth. For the present evening the fiercest steed
she could find to subdue was an arithmetic lesson. Annie hated
arithmetic, but in the guise of a plunging bay mare, that it took grit
to ride, she rather enjoyed forcing the difficult problems to come out
right.

Meanwhile the riding party had reached the campus, a little later and a
little wetter than most of their friends, and they were provided with
hot baths and hot drinks, and put to bed, where they lay in sleepy
comfort enjoying the feeling of being heroines.

Very soon after dinner Betty got tired of being a heroine, and when
Georgia Ames appeared and announced that a lot of freshmen were making
fudge in her room and wished Betty would come and have some and tell
them all about her experiences, she looked anxiously at Helen Adams, who
was the only person in the room just then.

"It's awfully good fudge--got marshmallows in it, and nuts," urged
Georgia. "They want Miss Adams too."

"Can I come in a kimono?" asked Betty. "I'm too tired to dress."

"Of course. Only----" Georgia hesitated.

"There's a man in the parlor, calling on Polly Eastman. And the folding
doors are stuck open. I wish my room wasn't down on that floor. You have
to be so careful of your appearance."

Betty frowned. "I want awfully to come. Can't you two think of a way?"

"Why of course," cried Georgia gleefully, after a moment's
consideration. "We'll hold a screen around you. The man will know that
something queer is inside it, but he can't see what."

So the procession started, Helen and Georgia carrying the screen. At the
top of the last flight, they adjusted it around Betty, and began slowly
to make the descent. At the curve Georgia looked down into the hall and
stopped, in consternation.

"They've moved out into the hall," she whispered. "No--this is Lucile
Merrifield and another man. We've got to go right past them."

"Let's go back," whispered Betty.

"But they've seen us," objected Helen, "and you'd miss the fudge."

A moment later, three girls and a Japanese screen fell through Georgia's
door into the midst of an amazed freshmen fudge party.

"Goodness," said Georgia, when she had recovered her breath. "Did you
hear that horrid Lucile? 'A regular freshman trick'--that's what she
said to her man. They blame everything on us."

"Well if this fudge is regular freshman fudge, it's the best I ever
tasted," said little Helen Adams tactfully.

Later in the evening Betty trailed her red kimono into Helen's room.
"Helen," she began, "did I have on my pearl pin when we started
down-stairs to-night? I can't find it anywhere."

"I don't think you did," said Helen, thoughtfully, "but I'll go and
see. You might have dropped it off when we all landed in a heap on the
floor."

But the freshmen had not found the pin and diligent search of Georgia's
room, as well as of the halls and stairways, failed to reveal it.

"Oh, well, I suppose it will turn up," said Betty easily. "I lost it
once last year, and ages afterward I found it in my desk. I shan't worry
yet awhile. I didn't have it on this morning, did I?"

This time Helen remembered positively. "No, you had on your lucky
pin--the silver four-leaved clover that I like so much. I noticed
particularly."

"All right then," said Betty. "I saw it last night, so it must be about
somewhere. Some day when I'm not so lame from riding and so sleepy, I'll
have a grand hunt for it."

CHAPTER V

THE RETURN OF MARY BROOKS

All through the fall Mary Brooks's "little friends" had been hoping for
a visit from her, and begging her to come soon, before the fine weather
was over. Now she was really and truly coming. Roberta had had the
letter of course, by virtue of being Mary's most faithful satellite; but
it was meant for them all.

"The conquering heroine is coming," Mary wrote. "She will arrive at four
on Monday, and you'd better, some of you, meet the train, because
there's going to be a spread along, and the turkey weighs a ton. Don't
plan any doings for me. I've been to a dance or a dinner every night for
two weeks and I'm already sick of being a busy bud, though I've only
been one for a month--not to mention having had the gayest kind of a
time all summer. So you see I'm coming to Harding to rest and
recuperate, and to watch you children play at being seniors. I know how
busy you are, and what a bore it is to have company, but I shall just
take care of myself. Only get me a room at Rachel's little house around
the corner, and I won't be a bit of trouble to anybody."

"Consider the touching modesty of that now!" exclaimed Katherine. "As if
we weren't all pining for a sight of her. And can't you just taste the
spread she'll bring?"

"We must make her have it the very night she gets here," said Betty
practically. "There's a lot going on next week, and as soon as people
find out that she's here they'll just pounce on her for all sorts of
things."

"I hereby pounce upon her for our house dance," announced Babbie
Hildreth hastily. "Isn't it jolly that it comes this week? I had a
presentiment that I'd better save one of my invitations."

"You needn't have bothered," said Babe enviously. "I guess there'll
always be room for Mary Brooks at a Westcott House dance--as long as
19-- stays anyway."

"Don't quarrel, children," Madeline intervened. "Your dance is on
Wednesday. Is there anything for Tuesday?"

"A psychology lecture," returned Helen Adams promptly.

"Cut it out," laughed Katherine. "Mary isn't coming up here to go to
psychology lectures."

"But she does want to go to it," declared Roberta, suddenly waking up to
the subject in hand. "I thought it was queer myself, but she speaks
about it particularly in her letter. Let me see--oh, here it is, in the
postscript. It's by a friend of Dr. Hinsdale, she says; and somebody
must have written her about it and offered her a ticket, because she
says she's already invited and so for us not to bother. Did you write
her, Helen?"

"No," said Helen, "I didn't. The lecture wasn't announced until
yesterday. There was a special meeting of the Philosophical Club to
arrange about it."

"It's queer," mused Katherine. "Mary was always rather keen on
psychology----"

"On the psychology of Dr. Hinsdale you mean," amended Madeline
flippantly. "But that doesn't explain her inside information about this
lecture. We'll ask her how she knew--that's the quickest way to find
out. Now let's go on with our schedule. What's Thursday?"

"The French Club play," explained Roberta. "I think she'd like that,
don't you?"

Madeline nodded. "Easily. It's going to be awfully clever this time.
Then that leaves only Friday. Let's drive out to Smuggler's Notch in the
afternoon and have supper at Mrs. Noble's."

"Oh, yes," agreed Betty. "That will make such a perfectly lovely end-up
to the week. And of course we shall all want to take her to Cuyler's and
Holmes's. May I have her for Tuesday breakfast? I haven't any class
until eleven, so we can eat in peace."

"Then I'll take lunch on Tuesday," put in Katherine hastily, "because I
am as poor as poverty at present, and a one o'clock luncheon preceded by
a breakfast ending at eleven appeals to my lean pocketbook."

"I should like to take her driving that afternoon," put in Babbie.

"You may, if you'll take me to sit in the middle and do the driving,"
said Bob, "and let's all have dinner at Cuyler's that night--a grand
affair, you know, ordered before hand, at a private table with a screen
around it, and a big bunch of roses for a centre piece. Old girls like
that sort of thing. It makes them feel important."

"With or without food?" demanded Madeline sarcastically, but no one paid
any attention to her, in the excitement of bidding for the remaining
divisions of Mary's week.

All the Chapin House girls and the three B's met her at the station and
"ohed" and "ahed" in a fashion that would have been disconcerting to
anybody who was unfamiliar with the easy manners of Harding girls, at
the elegance of her new blue velvet suit and the long plumes that curled
above her stylishly dressed hair, and at the general air of "worldly and
bud-like wisdom," as Katherine called it, that pervaded her small
person.

They had not finished admiring her when her trunk appeared.

"Will you look at that, girls!" cried Katherine, feigning to be quite
overpowered by its huge size. "Mary Brooks, whatever do you expect to
do with a trousseau like that in this simple little academic village?"

Mary only smiled placidly. "Don't be silly, K. Some of the spread is in
there. Besides, I want to be comfortable while I'm here, and this autumn
weather is so uncertain. Who's going to have first go at carrying the
turkey?"

"I've got a runabout waiting," explained Babbie. "I'm going to drive him
up. There'll be room for you too, Mary, and for some of the others."

The seat of a runabout can be made to hold four, on a pinch, and there
is still standing-room for several other adaptable persons. The rest of
the party walked, and the little house around the corner was soon the
scene of a boisterous reunion.

Mary's conversation was as abundant and amusing as ever, and she did not
show any signs of the weariness that her letter had made so much of.

"That's because I have acquired a society manner," she announced
proudly. "I conceal my real emotions under a mask of sparkling gaiety."

"You can't conceal things from us that way," declared Katherine. "How
under the sun did you hear about that psychology lecture?"

"Why, a man I know told me," explained Mary innocently. "He's also a
friend of the lecturer. We were at dinner together one night last week,
and he knew I was a Harding-ite, and happened to mention it. Any
objections?"

"And you really want to go?" demanded Madeline.

"Of course," retorted Mary severely. "I always welcome every opportunity
to improve my mind."

But to the elaborate plans that had been made for her entertainment Mary
offered a vigorous protest. "My dears," she declared, "I should be worn
to a frazzle if I did all that. Didn't I tell you that I'd come up to
rest? I'll have breakfast with anybody who can wait till I'm ready to
get up, and we'll have one dinner all together. But it's really too cold
to drive back from Smuggler's Notch after dark, and besides you know I
never cared much for long drives. But we'll have the spread to-night,
anyway, just as you planned, because it's going to be such a full week,
and I wouldn't for the world have any of you miss anything on my
account."

"And you don't care about the French play?" asked Roberta, who had moved
heaven and earth to get her a good seat.

"No, dear," answered Mary sweetly. "My French is hopelessly rusty."

"Then I should think you'd go in for improving it," suggested Babe.

"There's not enough of it to improve," Mary retorted calmly.

"Well, you will go to our house-dance, won't you?" begged Babbie.

"Oh, you must," seconded Bob. "I've told piles of people you were
coming."

"We shall die of disappointment if you don't," added Babe feelingly.

Mary laughed good-naturedly. "All right," she conceded, "I'll come. Only
be sure to get me lots of dances with freshmen. Then I can amuse myself
by making them think I'm one, also, and I shan't be bored."

On the way back to the campus the girls discussed Mary's amazing
attitude toward the pleasures of college life.

"She must be awfully used up," said Roberta, solemnly. "Why, she used to
be crazy about plays and dances and 'eats.'"

"No use in coming up at all," grumbled Katherine, "if she's only going
to lie around and sleep."

"She doesn't look one bit tired," declared Betty, "and she seems glad to
be back, only she doesn't want to do anything. It's certainly queer."

"She must be either sick or in love," said Madeline. "Nothing else will
account for it."

"Then I think she's in love," declared little Helen Adams sedately. "She
has a happy look in her eyes."

"Bosh!" jeered Bob. "Mary isn't the sentimental kind. I'll bet she feels
different after the spread."

But though the spread was quite the grandest that had ever been seen at
Harding, and though Mary seemed to enjoy it quite as heartily as her
guests, who had conscientiously starved on campus fare for the week
before it, it failed to arouse in her the proper enthusiasm for college
functions.

On Tuesday "after partaking of a light but elegant noontide repast on
me," as Katherine put it, Mary declared her intention of taking a nap,
and went to her room. But half an hour later, when Babbie tiptoed up to
ask if she really meant to waste a glorious afternoon sleeping, and to
put the runabout at her service, the room was empty, and Mary turned up
again barely in time for the grand dinner at Cuyler's.

"We were scared to death for fear you'd forgotten us," said Madeline,
helping her off with her wraps. "Where have you been all this time?"

"Why, dressing," explained Mary, wearing her most innocent expression.
"It takes ages to get into this gown, but it's my best, and I wanted to
do honor to your very grand function."

"That dress was lying on your bed when I stopped for you exactly fifteen
minutes ago," declared Bob triumphantly. "So you'll have to think of
another likely tale."

Mary smiled her "beamish" smile.

"Well, I came just after you'd gone and isn't fourteen minutes to waste
on dressing an age? If you mean where was I before that, why my nap
wasn't a success, so I went walking, and it was so lovely that I
couldn't bear to come in. These hills are perfectly fascinating after
the city."

"You little fraud," cried Madeline. "You hate walking, and you can't see
scenery----"

"As witness the nestle," put in Katherine.

"So please tell us who he is," finished Madeline calmly.

"The very idea of coming back to see us and then going off fussing with
Winsted men!" Babe's tone was solemnly reproachful.

But Mary was equal to the situation. "I haven't seen a Winsted man since
I came," she declared. "I was going to tell you who was with me this
afternoon, but I shan't now, because you've all been so excessively mean
and suspicious." A waitress appeared, and Mary's expression grew
suddenly ecstatic. "Do I see creamed chicken?" she cried. "Girls, I
dreamed about Cuyler's creamed chicken every night last week. I was so
afraid you wouldn't have it!"

Her appreciation of the dinner was so delightfully whole-hearted that
even Roberta forgave her everything, down to her absurd enthusiasm over
a ponderous psychology lecture and the very dull reception that followed
it. At the latter, to be sure, Mary acted exactly like her old self, for
she sat in a corner and monopolized Dr. Hinsdale for half an hour by the
clock, while her little friends, to quote Katherine Kittredge, "champed
their bits" in their impatience to capture her and escape to more
congenial regions.

The next night at the Westcott House dance Mary was again her gay and
sportive self. If she was bored, she concealed it admirably, and that in
spite of the fact that her little scheme of playing freshman seemed
doomed to failure. Mary had walked out of chapel that morning with the
front row, and, even without the enormous bunch of violets which none of
her senior friends would confess to having sent her, she was not a
figure to pass unnoticed. So most of the freshmen on her card recognized
her at once, and the few who did not stoutly refused to be taken in by
her innocent references to "our class."

She had the last dance but one with the sour-faced Miss Butts, who never
recognized any one; but Mary did not know that, and being rather tired
she swiftly waltzed her around the hall a few times and then suggested
that they watch the dance out from the gallery.

"What class are you?" asked Miss Butts, when they were established
there. "My card doesn't say."

"Doesn't it?" said Mary idly, watching the kaleidoscope of gay colors
moving dizzily about beneath her. "Then suppose you guess."

Miss Butts considered ponderously. "You aren't a freshman," she said
finally, "nor a sophomore."

"How are you so sure of that?" asked Mary. "I was just going to say----"

"You're a junior," announced Miss Butts, calmly disregarding the
interruption.

Mary shook her head.

"Senior, then."

Mary shook her head again.

"I didn't think you looked old enough for that," said Miss Butts. "Then
I was mistaken and you're a sophomore."

"No," said Mary firmly.

Miss Butts stared. "Freshman?"

"No," said Mary, who considered the befooling of Miss Butts beneath her.
"I graduated last year."

"Oh, I don't believe that: I believe you're a freshman after all,"
declared Miss Butts. "You started to say you were a few minutes ago."

"No, I graduated last June," repeated Mary, a trifle sharply. "Here's
Miss Hildreth coming for my next dance. You can ask her. I'm her guest
this evening. Didn't I graduate last year, Babbie?"

Babbie stared uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then she remembered Mary's
plan.

"Why, you naughty little freshman!" she cried reprovingly. "Have you
been telling her that?"

Miss Butts looked dazedly from the amused and reproachful Babbie to
Mary, whose expression was properly cowed and repentant.

"Are you really a freshman?" she asked. "Why, I don't believe you are.
I--I don't know what to believe!"

Mary smiled at her radiantly. "Never mind," she said, "you'll know the
truth some day. Next fall at about this time I'll invite you to dinner,
and then you'll know all about me. Now good-bye."

Babbie regarded this speech as merely Mary's convenient little way of
getting rid of the stupid Miss Butts, who for her part promptly forgot
all about it. But Mary remembered, and she declared that the sight of
Miss Butts's face on the occasion of that dinner-party, with all its
rather remarkable accessories, was worth many evenings of boredom at
"girl dances."

It was not until Friday, that Mary's "little friends" caught her
red-handed, in an escapade that explained everything from the size of
her trunk to the puzzling insouciance of her manner. They all, and
particularly Roberta, had begun to feel a little hurt as the days went
by and Mary indulged in many mysterious absences and made unconvincing
excuses for refusing invitations that, as Katherine Kittredge said, were
enough to turn the head of a crown-princess. Friday, the day that had
been reserved for the expedition to Smuggler's Notch, dawned crisp and
clear, and some girls who had had dinner at Mrs. Noble's farm the night
before brought back glowing reports of the venison her brother had sent
her from Maine, and the roaring log fire that she built for them in the
fireplace of her new dining-room. So Roberta and Madeline hurried over
before chapel to ask Mary to reconsider. But she was firm in her
refusal. She had waked with a headache. Besides, she had letters to
write and calls to make on her faculty friends and the people she knew
in town.

The embassy returned, disconsolate, and reported its failure.

"It's just a shame," said Eleanor. "We've been saving that trip all the
fall, so that Mary could go."

"Let's just go without her," suggested Katherine rebelliously. "There
can't be many more nice days."

But Betty shook her head. "We don't want to hurt her feelings. She's a
dear, even if she does act queerly this week. Besides, every one of us
but Roberta and Madeline has that written lesson in English 10
to-morrow, and we ought to study. I'm scared to death over it."

"So am I," agreed Katherine sadly. "I suppose we'd better wait."

"But we can go walking," said Madeline to Roberta, and Roberta, more
hurt than any of the rest by her idol's strange conduct, silently
assented.

They were scuffling gaily through the fallen leaves on an unfrequented
road through the woods, when they heard a carriage coming swiftly up
behind them and turned to see--of all persons--Mary Brooks, who hated
driving, and Dr. Hinsdale. Mary was talking gaily and looked quite
reconciled to her fate, and Dr. Hinsdale was leaving the horses very
much to themselves in the pleasant absorption of watching Mary's face.
Indeed so interested were the pair in each other that they almost passed
the two astonished girls standing by the roadside, without recognizing
them at all. But just as she whirled past, Mary saw them, and leaned
back to wave her hand and smile her "beamish" smile at the unwitting
discoverers of her secret.

It was dusk and nearly dinner time before Dr. Hinsdale drew his horses
up in front of the house around the corner, but Mary's "little friends"
gave up dressing, without a qualm, and even risked missing their soup to
sit, lined up in an accusing row on her bed and her window-box, ready to
greet her when she stumbled into her dark room and lit her gas.

"Oh, girls! What a start you gave me!" she cried, suddenly perceiving
her visitors. "I suppose you think I'm perfectly horrid," she went on
hastily, "but truly I couldn't help it. When a faculty asks you to go
driving, you can't tell him that you hate it--and I couldn't for the
life of me scrape up a previous engagement."

"Speaking of engagements"--began Madeline provokingly.

"All's fair in love, Mary," Katherine broke in. "You're perfectly
excusable. We all think so."

"Who said anything about love?" demanded Mary, stooping to brush an
imaginary speck of dust from her skirt.

"Next time," advised Rachel laughingly, "you'd better take us into your
confidence. You've given yourself a lot of unnecessary bother, and us
quite a little worry, though we don't mind that now."

"Why didn't you tell us that he spent the summer at the same place that
you did?" asked little Helen Adams.

Mary started. "Who told you that?" she demanded anxiously.

"Nobody but Lucile," explained Betty in soothing tones. "She visited
there for a week, and this afternoon just by chance she happened to
speak of seeing him. It fitted in beautifully, you see. She doesn't know
you were there too, so it's all right."

Mary gave a relieved little sigh, and then, turning suddenly, fell upon
the row of pitiless inquisitors, embracing as many as possible and
smiling benignly at the rest. "Oh, girls, he's a dear," she said. "He's
worth twenty of the gilded youths you meet out in society." She drew
back hastily. "But we're only good friends," she declared. "He's been
down a few times to spend Sunday--that was how I heard about the
lecture--but he comes to see father as much as to see me--and--and you
mustn't gossip."

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