he had never given herself airs because of her success in writing
scenarios. Another girl might have done so. But Ruth was naturally
modest, and had never really ceased to be surprised at her own success.

The new scenario she was at work upon, the scenes of which were laid at
the Red Mill, was born of an idea she had evolved when her attention had
first been turned to motion-picture writing.

Mr. Hammond, her kind friend and the president of the Alectrion Film
Corporation, had advised her to postpone the use of this idea until she
had tried her apprentice hand on other and simpler scenarios. The time
seemed ripe now, however, for the writing of "Crossed Wires," and he had
encouraged her to go ahead.

All the visible effect Edith Phelps' joke had upon Ruth was to send her
to the unfinished scenario. After returning from the college offices on
this occasion she worked on her play until lunch time.

"There's too much new to see and to do for you to pore over letter
writing, Ruth," Helen declared, misunderstanding her friend's
occupation. "We want to see Ardmore. We want to go out on the lake if we
can get a boat. We've got to see the gym and the library. And to-night
we must turn up at this meeting, it seems, and see what Miss Dunstan,
the soph president, has to say to us freshies."

"Oh, I want to go out on the lake!" cried Ruth, agreeing. "And I want to
explore that island."

"What island?" demanded Jennie, coming into the chums' study.

"Bliss Island."

"'Tisn't part of the college grounds," said the fleshy girl.

"Don't care. Want to see it," declared Ruth. "I hope we can get a boat.
I didn't see many in use this morning."

"Some of the girls own their own. Especially canoes," said Jennie Stone.
"But it's _the_ thing to make the 'eight.' Let me tell you, us Ardmores
are supposed to be some rowists! Our first eight beat the Gillings
College first eight last June."

"We'll all try for the eight then," Helen said.

"And _you_, Jennie?" asked Ruth, mildly.

"Oh, _me_!"

"String beans for yours, Heavy," Helen cried, clapping her hands.
"You'll have to diet on them until you have reduced to little more than
a string yourself if you expect to make the eight."

"Bet I could do it," grumbled Heavy.

"A bet's a bet!" cried Helen. "I take you."

"Don't be rude, girls," advised Ruth. "You sound like regular,
sure-enough gamblers. And, anyway, Heavy will never be able to make the
eight. She might as well pay h