hey knew that you let the girl who
stole it from you wear it for months? If you had been honorable you
would have made her give it back and then dropped her forever."

Marjorie's sorrow disappeared in wrath. "Mary Raymond, you don't know
what you are talking about," she flamed. "I can guess who told you that
untruth. It was Mignon La Salle. It was _not_ Constance who took my
butterfly pin. It was----"

Again she remembered her promise.

"Well," jeered Mary, "who was it, then?"

"I shall not say another word until I see Captain." Marjorie's tones
were freighted with decision.

"You mean that you can't deny that your friend Constance was guilty,"
cut in Mary scornfully. "Never mind. I don't care to hear anything more.
You needn't consult your mother, either. I'm never going to be friends
with you again, so it doesn't matter. But if you ever cared the least
bit for me you'll do as I ask and not tell tales to Captain--I mean Mrs.
Dean," she corrected haughtily. "If you do, then I repeat what I said
the other day. I'll never speak to you again--no, not if I live here
forever. But I won't have to do that, for I shall write to Father and
ask him to let me go to Mignon's to live. So there!"

With this dire threat Mary flounced angrily from the room, well pleased
with the stand she had taken.

It was a most unsociable trio that gathered at the breakfast table that
Saturday morning. Mary carried herself with open belligerence. Marjorie
looked as though she was on the point of bursting into tears, while Mrs.
Dean was unusually grave. A delicate task lay before her and she was
wondering as she poured the coffee how she had best begin. Still she had
determined to thresh the matter out speedily, and as soon as Delia had
served the breakfast and retired to the kitchen, she glanced from one to
the other of the two principals and said, "Now, girls, I am waiting to
hear about last night."

A blank silence fell. Marjorie fixed her eyes on Mary. To her belonged
the first word.

The silence continued.

"Well, Mary," Mrs. Dean spoke at last, "what have you to say for
yourself?"

"Nothing," came the mutinous reply.

"I am sorry that you won't meet me frankly," commented Mrs. Dean. "I had
hoped to find you on duty." Her searching gaze rested on Marjorie
"Lieutenant, it is your turn, I think."

Marjorie flushed with distress. She was between two fires. Obedience
won. She related what had transpired in the hall in a few brief wo