new things that I'm sure you will not recognize
them. Miss Hobart is my roommate. We have gotten along famously so
far--haven't had the smallest kind of a difficulty. I'm sure we'll so
continue, for I always think the first month is the hardest. We had to
learn to adjust ourselves to each other. But there is no danger of a
quarrel now. We have passed our rocks."

"Knock on wood, Mary," called back her father on hearing the remark, "that
will exorcise the evil spirit of assurance. Knock on wood, I say, or you
and Elizabeth will quarrel before the week is out."

Mary tossed her head and laughed. She thoroughly appreciated her father's
witticisms.

"I shall not knock on wood--and we will not quarrel," she replied. "That
is our room, mother. Yes; right there."

Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Wilson passed into the bedroom. The others of the
party followed. Elizabeth and Mary at the end of the line had stepped
aside to give precedence to the elders.

They heard Judge Wilson laugh. "It has been nothing less than a cyclone,"
he said, then laughed again.

"Why, this is not at all like Mary!" began Mrs. Wilson. Mary noticed the
tone of apology in her voice.

She and Elizabeth stepped inside. Elizabeth's face grew crimson. In the
middle of the floor lay her school shoes which, in her haste to dress, she
had kicked off and left. Her coat and hat were on one chair. Stretched out
on the end of the couch was her gym suit, glaringly conspicuous with its
crimson braid. Every toilet article that she had used was in evidence, and
in a place never designed for its occupancy.

Miss Wilson arose to the occasion. With a characteristic toss of the head,
she crossed the room and drew forward a chair. "Sit, all of you, and I'll
put the kettle to boil for cocoa. Father, tell your story about the boy
illustrating 'The Old Oaken Bucket.'" She lighted the alcohol lamp while
she was talking. She made no apology for the disorder of the room. One
might suppose from her manner that all was as the most fastidious might
desire.

Elizabeth sat quietly in the background, hoping that no one would speak to
her. Her face was burning. There was a dimness about her eyes suggestive
of tears.

Missing her, Mrs. Wilson turned, about. "Where is Elizabeth?" she asked.
"Did she not come with us?"

"Yes; I came," said a voice choking with tears. "I'm here--and oh, I am so
ashamed. Not one of those articles scattered about are Mary's. They're all
mine." At this s