ponded Norma, placidly, "they
wouldn't put themselves into the position of being snubbed. You can talk
all you want to about the college spirit from the standpoint of Deans and
faculties, but when all's said and done, it's the student spirit that
rules. I'll bet that she doesn't stay here a month. She hasn't any one to
help her at home, and can't afford tutoring, so she'll just peter out."

"Dear, dear friends of my youth," Charity exclaimed, on her knees before
the couch, "here are some wonderful chocolates and cheese straws and
pimentoes. Let's have a love feast immediately and bury the hatchet. Kit,
your hair isn't red enough to warrant any such exhibitions, and you'll
have to cut them out."

The gong sounded in the hall below for afternoon classes, and there was
just time to snatch a little refreshment before they joined the other
girls trooping through the corridors. Kit found herself watching Marcelle.
There was a peculiar aloofness about the girl which seemed to put almost a
wall of defense around her. She was intensely interested in everything,
one could see that plainly, except the other students, and it seemed as if
she simply overlooked them. When Kit came down the staircase, she glanced
into the library and saw Marcelle in there alone, bending down before the
long wall bookcases. Across the wide hall there were groups of boys and
girls in the two long double parlors, laughing and talking together, and
every couch and settee along the T-shaped hall was occupied, but Marcelle
was alone.

Whoever had built Hope College had managed to work out some of his dreams
of old world beauty. The library was wainscoted in some dull satin
finished wood, with the graining of olive wood. In the west wall was set a
deeply embrasured mullioned window of stained glass, with the figure of a
young girl in white in college cap and gown, her face upturned, as she
seemed to come towards one through a garden of foxgloves, pale-pink and
hyacinth in hue. Beneath was the one word, Hope. Scattered about the room
on top of bookcases and shelves were the usual beloved bits of bronze and
statuary, Dante's head, the Nike, with widespread wings, busts of Emerson,
Longfellow, Lowell, Whitman, Whittier, Mrs. Stowe, Louisa Alcott, and a
beautiful bowed head of Mrs; Browning, her curls half-shadowing her face.

Marcelle had a volume of "Treasure Island" in her hand, illustrated in
color. She turned in surprise at the touch of Kit's hand on her