didn't suppose she would care."

"I presume you noticed that they are very remarkable."

Helen blushed, thinking how she had hesitated between these and her own
production, which she was sure could not be considered at all
"remarkable." "I--well, I went mostly by what you said. I don't believe
I am a good judge of poetry--of verses, I mean."

"You needn't be afraid to call these verses poetry. But I don't blame
you for not fully appreciating them. No girl ought to understand the
tragedy of utter defeat, which is their theme."

Miss Raymond paused, and Helen wondered if she ought to go or stay.

"Miss Adams," Miss Raymond went on again presently, "the author of those
verses was in my room just before you came. She wanted to return a book
that I lent her early in the term, by way of answering some question
that she had brought up in my sophomore English class. She says that the
book and the word of appreciation that went with it are the only
kindness for which she has to thank Harding college, and that I am the
only person to whom she cares to say good-bye. I don't know why she
should except me. I had quite forgotten her. I associated nothing
whatever with the name on those verses until I looked at it again just
now. I considered the tragic note in them merely as a literary triumph.
I never thought of the girl behind the tragedy." She waited a moment.
"She's going to leave college," she went on abruptly. "She says that a
year and a half of it is a fair trial. I couldn't deny that. She says
that she has made no friends, leaves without one regret or one happy
memory. Miss Adams, would you be willing, instead of writing her a note,
to tell her personally about this?"

"Why, certainly," said Helen, "if you think she'd like it better."

"Yes, I am sure she would. You won't find her at all hard to get on
with. She has a dreadful scar on one cheek, from a cut or a burn, that
gives her face a queer one-sided look. I suspect that may be at the
bottom of her unhappiness."

On the way across the campus Helen had an inspiration, which led her a
little out of her way, to the house where Jane Drew, the literary editor
of the "Argus" lived.

"I'm so relieved that my department is all made up," she told Jane
artfully, "that I feel like celebrating. Won't you meet me at Cuyler's
for supper?"

Jane promised, a good deal surprised, for Helen was not in the habit of
asking her to supper at Cuyler's; and Helen, after arranging to