"Oh, that is splendid and strong and easy to call. There was Helen Mar, and Helen of Troy, and several other famous Helens. Well, I like your name to begin with. Are you going to be a doctor?" "A doctor!" Helen gave a little shudder. "Oh, that settles it. You haven't the courage for all you look so brave. Two of our last year's graduates have chosen that walk in life. One goes to New York bound to work her way through, the other to Wellesley. Seven years of study, think of it and weep!" "But if she loves to study?" "Depravity of taste. Spider, ask in this timid fly hovering about your gates," and as Helen stepped back with a gesture of the hand Miss Mays entered and glanced around, though she kept on talking. "Do you like getting settled, and are you not bothered about the right places?--oh," with almost a shriek--"you have that lovely Bodenhausen Madonna! I have the Sichel and I never can decide which I like best. And then Gabriel Marx, and Dangerfield! We're not hopelessly modern, for I have the Sistine. Nearly every girl has it. And oh, who is this handsome woman? A Duchess at the very least!" "That is--a dear friend," Helen flushed. "That must have been taken when she was younger. She is quite old now." "Elderly. There may be old men and old peasant women in pictures, but the living women are simply elderly. Well, one wouldn't mind growing old if one could look like that. Have you ever been away at school before?" "No," returned Helen. "North, South, East or West? Brevity is the soul of wit. I sometimes set up for a wit when I can do it on a small capital." "Rather southerly from here," laughed Helen. "A little country place called Hope Center." "Hope Center. Helen Grant. Well that has a sound! You will do. What else are you going to put up?" "I haven't anything else." "That's delightful. Most girls bring so much from home, to cry over. You don't really look like the crying kind. And school girl treasures accumulate fearfully. It's nice to have a place to put the new ones." She had a small photograph of Mrs. Dayton in her writing desk. There had not been any keepsakes to bring. "Won't you come and be introduced to some of the girls? They are in Daisy Bell's room." "Wouldn't I----" she hesitated. "Be an intruder? Oh dear no. The sooner you get over these things the better. Come!" She took Helen's hand and led her to a room two or three doors down. The screens had been pushed aside. On one bed sat two girls, two others were hanging pictures and spreading bric-a-brac on brackets and shelves. One of the girls was still in short skirts, and Helen felt secretly glad. This was Daisy Bell. "Oh, thank goodness you're not grown up," cried Daisy, eyeing her from head to toe. "I wept, I prayed, I entreated for long skirts, and I couldn't move my mother, any more than the rock of Gibraltar." "Well, you're not a senior. Why should you care?" "How old are you, Miss Grant?" "Past fourteen the last of June."