like the Loraines in that. My mother would have died before she would have
knowingly done wrong."

The talk went on in this strain for some time. Then Elizabeth spoke of the
telegram she had received and suggested that she might not go home during
the holidays.

Nora offered her sympathy. She did not ask Elizabeth where she lived. It
was odd that, although they were friends, she never knew until the close
of school that Joseph Hobart, the expert mining engineer of Bitumen, was
Elizabeth's father.

It was quite late when Elizabeth slipped back into her bedroom. She
undressed in the dark so that she might not waken her roommate, but Mary
heard her and spoke:

"You and Nora O'Day must have had a great deal to say. 'Smiles' has
trotted down here twice inquiring for you."

"What did you tell her?"

"That I was not your keeper. I think she will interview you privately
to-morrow."

"Mary, there's something I wish to ask you. At the meeting last spring,
who was it that worked up the case against Nora O'Day?"

"Landis. Why?"

"Oh, because. Are you sure? Did she take an active part?"

"Yes; I'm sure. Could you imagine a meeting where Landis didn't put in her
oar? Why do you ask?"

"Because I wanted to know."

"An excellent reason," was the sleepy response.

"But, Mary--" But Mary was asleep.

CHAPTER IX.

JOE'S MESSAGE.

After breakfast the following morning, Elizabeth was summoned to the
reception-hall where Joe Ratowsky awaited her. He stood twisting his hat
about as she entered. The expansive smile which covered his swarthy face
was not so much one of goodwill as embarrassment. He stood in the center
of the room so that by no possible chance could he touch any article of
furniture. Joe was no coward. He had performed heroic parts when mobs of
miners and the militia, during the big strikes, met in conflict. But the
thought of sitting down on chairs upholstered in satin of dainty colors
made the cold chills run up and down his spine.

It was cruel in Elizabeth to shake his hand so long and so vigorously,
even though she was glad to see him. And it was worse than cruel to keep
pushing easy chairs before him and insisting upon him sitting down.
Elizabeth insisted, and in desperation Joe took a letter from his pocket
and thrust it before her.

"Mees-ter Hobart, he write--he write heap--b'gosh."

"He isn't sick, Joe, is he?"

"Sick!" Joe grunted his disgust at the thought of anyone being sick. "He