ursued." Migwan only laughed and said she had had uncommonly hard
problems to solve these last few weeks. The other girls of course did
not know the exact state of the Gardiner finances, and never dreamed
that Migwan was having a struggle even to stay in high school. She was
such a fine, aristocratic-looking girl, and was so sparkling and witty
all the time that it was hard to connect her with poverty and worry.

"Let's all go to the matinee next Saturday afternoon," suggested Gladys.
"The 'Blue Bird' is going to be played." The girls agreed eagerly and
asked Gladys to get seats for them, all but Migwan, who said nothing.

"Don't you want to go, Migwan?" they asked.

"Not this time," Migwan answered in a casual tone. "There is something
else I have to do Saturday afternoon." The girls accepted this
explanation readily. It never occurred to them that Migwan could not
afford to go.

"What is this mysterious something you are always doing?" asked Gladys
teasingly. "Girls, I believe Migwan is writing a book. She has retired
from polite society altogether." Migwan smiled blandly at her, but made
no answer.

At home that night, however, she felt very low-spirited indeed. She was
only human, after all, and wanted dreadfully to go to the matinee with
the girls. Gladys would take them all to Schiller's afterward for a
parfait and bring them home in style in her machine. It did not seem
fair that she should be cut off from every pleasure that involved the
spending of a little money. This was her last year in high school, the
year which should be the happiest, but she must resolutely turn her face
away from all those little festivities that add such touches of color to
the memory fabric of school days. She knew that at the merest hint of
her circumstances to Gladys or Nyoda they would have gladly paid her way
everywhere the group went, but Migwan's pride forbade this. If she could
not afford to go to places she would stay at home and nobody would be
any the wiser. Nevertheless, a few tears would come at the thought of
the good time she was missing, and she had no heart to work on her
story.

"Cry-baby!" she said to herself fiercely, winking the tears back.
"Crying because you can't do as you would like all the time! You're lots
better off than poor Hinpoha this very minute, even if she is rich. You
ought to be ashamed of yourself!" The thought of Hinpoha, who would
likewise miss the jolly party, comforted her somewhat, and s