Mary had
resigned herself to remain under their roof and go on with her school.
Her distortion of the truth grew with each recital and, as the autumn
days came and went, she found she had succeeded in dividing the
sophomore class far more effectually than she had divided it the
preceding year, when in its freshman infancy.

At the Hallowe'en dance which the Weston boys always gave to their fair
Sanford schoolmates, dissension had reigned and broken forth in so many
petty jealousies that the boyish hosts had been filled with gloomy
disgust "at the way some of those girls acted," and vowed among
themselves never to give another party. There were exceptions, of
course, they had moodily agreed. Marjorie Dean and _her_ crowd were "all
right" girls and "nothing was too good for them." As for some others,
well--"they'd wait a long time before the fellows broke their necks to
show 'em another good time."

After a three weeks' absence Constance Stevens had returned to Sanford
and school. To her Marjorie confided her sorrows. So distressed was the
latter at the part she had unwittingly played in the jangle that she
wrote Mary Raymond an earnest little note, which was read and
contemptuously consigned to the waste-basket as unworthy of answer. Long
were the talks Constance and Marjorie had on the sore subject of Mary's
unreasonable stand, and many were the plans proposed by which they might
soften her stony little heart, but none of them were carried out. They
were voiced, only to be laid aside as futile.

To Marjorie it was all a dreadful dream from which she forlornly hoped
she might at any moment awaken. Three times a day she endured the
torture of sitting opposite Mary at meals, of hearing her talk with her
mother and father exactly as though she were not present. Mr. Dean had
returned from his Western trip. His wife had immediately advised him of
the painful situation, and, after due deliberation, he had decided that
the only one who could alter it was Mary herself. "Let her alone," he
counseled. "She has her father's disposition. You cannot drive her. You
were right in leaving her to work out her own salvation. It is hard on
Marjorie, poor child, but sooner or later Mary will wake up. When she
does she will be a very humble young woman. I wouldn't have her father
and mother know this for a good deal, and neither would she. You can
rest assured of that. Still you had better keep an eye on her. I don't
like her friendship w