ulu."

"Why don't you go, too?" Beverly asked, good-naturedly.

"I should love to, but I couldn't leave Mother. Dr. Bell offered to take
me, and Father and Mother said I might go if I liked, but I couldn't
make up my mind to leave them. Perhaps some day we shall go ourselves,"
finished Winifred, trying to look hopeful.

"I'll let you into a little secret if you'll promise not to tell," said
Beverly, who had a genuine liking for Winifred, despite the fact that
she was "young for her age." "My mother is very anxious to have Marjorie
go with us, provided her parents will consent. Miss Graham thinks they
will, and Mother has written to ask them before speaking to Marjorie
herself. Mind you don't tell, for it's a great secret. Even Babs doesn't
know, for she and Marjorie are such chums she would be sure to let
something out. Hello! what's up? Lulu is going to make a speech."

There was a sudden hush as Lulu, with Elsie at her side, stepped
forward, and rapped sharply on the table, to call the club to order.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she began in what the girls called "her
presidential tone," "I didn't expect to have any regular meeting this
evening, but Miss Elsie Carleton has an announcement to make, and has
asked me to tell you she would like to speak. As you all know Miss
Carleton was your president until she resigned in favor of another, I am
sure you will all be pleased to hear what she has to say. Go ahead,
Elsie; everybody's listening."

All eyes were turned in surprise upon Elsie, as she stood before them,
very pale, but with a look of settled determination on her face. Twice
she tried to speak, and stopped, and they could all see that she was
very nervous. Then the words came, very low, but sufficiently audible to
reach every ear in the room.

"Girls," she began, looking straight before her, and clasping and
unclasping her hands as she spoke, "girls and boys, too, for I want you
all to hear. I have a confession to make. It's about something that
happened at the first meeting of this Club--the night we were all
initiated. That poem I wrote--some of you thought it was the best, and
you made me president--it--it wasn't original; I learned it when I was a
little girl, but I thought nobody would recognize it. I didn't mean to
cheat at first, but I couldn't make up anything that I thought was good
enough, and I hated to have the other poems better than mine. I haven't
anything more to say except that I've been asham