as Jerry had----

Then, instinctively, curious eyes sought for Ginny Cox--Ginny, who had
been unjustly accused by her schoolmates. But Ginny at that moment was
huddled in her bed under warm blankets with a hot-water-bag at her feet
and an ice-bag on her head, her worried mother fluttering over her with
a clinical thermometer in one hand and a castor-oil bottle in the other,
wishing she could diagnose Ginny's queer symptoms and wondering if she
had not ought to call in the doctor!

Jerry had had a bad night, too. At home, in her room, Gyp's eloquent
arguments had seemed to lose some of their force. Jerry persisted in
seeing complications in the course that had fallen to her lot.

"It's acting a lie," she protested.

"The cause justifies _that_," cried Gyp, sweepingly. "Anyway, I don't
believe Dr. Caton will be half as hard on you as he would have been on
Ginny Cox. It's your first offence and you can act real sorry."

"How can I act real sorry when I haven't _done_ anything?" wailed Jerry.

"You'll _have_ to--you must pretend. The harder it is the nobler your
sacrifice will be. And some day everyone will know what you did for the
honor of the school and future generations will----"

"And I was trying so hard for the Lincoln Award!" Real tears sprang to
Jerry's eyes.

"Oh, you can work harder than ever and win it in spite of this,"
comforted Gyp, who truly believed Jerry could do anything.

"And I can't play on the hockey team in the inter-class match this
week!"

"Of _course_ it's hard, Jerry." Gyp did not want to listen to much
more--her own conviction might weaken. "But nothing matters except the
match with South High. _That's_ why you're doing it! Now if you want to
just back out and bring shame upon the Ravens as well as dishonor to the
school--all right! Only--I've told Ginny."

"I'll do it," answered Jerry, falteringly. But long after Gyp had gone
off into dreamless slumber she lay, wide-eyed, trying to picture this
sudden and unpleasant experience that confronted her. Her whole life up
to that moment when, in Mr. John's automobile, she had whirled around
her mountain, bound for a world of dreams, had been so simple, so
entirely free from any tangles that could not be straightened out, in a
moment, by "Sweetheart" that her bewilderment, now, made her lonely and
homesick for Sunnyside and her mother's counsel. The glamour of her new
life, happy though it was, lifted as a curtain might lift, and revealed,