“Come along, you chatter-box,” urged Jane. “We must be back at least for the train. Good bye, Helen dear. Keep your door locked.” In spite of their years, with decorum annexed, the two girls were always strongly tempted to slide down those adorable banisters in Miss Jordan’s big old-fashioned hall, and now, as they were going out for almost the last time, both girls eyed each other suspiciously. “We don’t dare, but it’s a shame,” spoke Jane. “That comes of getting old.” “Like a bald spot, it’s the emptiness that hurts. Don’t you feel a vagueness for a slide?” asked Judith, smoothing the glossy rail lovingly. “Yes, but Judith, did you notice someone in the lower hall just as we left our room?” whispered Jane. “See that figure—gliding around the pedestal?” “The plumber, likely,” replied Judith. “I have seen that old coat before. Let’s hurry, Janie, or, as you said, I shall have to give the expressmen my things ‘As Is,’ which means any old way, in store parlance. Where do we go from here?” At the door Jane glanced back a little ruefully. She had seen some one—a man, surely, standing there, just as they came out of the big room at the top of the stairs, and possibly when he noticed they could observe him he disappeared in the direction of the heavy folding doors and the big bronze statue, that marked the entrance to the dining room. “I wish Helen had come along,” Jane remarked when on the sidewalk, “somehow I will be rather glad when we all get safely to Wellington.” “I have felt the same way these last few days,” admitted Judith. “Jane, I think you are a wonder not to come right out, and ask Helen what all the mystery is about. Don’t you feel a bit squeamish having her turn pale at old men’s faces, and seeing her dodge every foreign-looking man, woman and child who comes along? Surely she is not too proud to be Polish.” “Oh, no, indeed. I know it is nothing like class pride. She loves to watch the little children who congregate around hand organs and hurdy-gurdies, her eyes dance with them. No, Judith, Helen has a secret, and I am sure it is one that keeps her anxious, but why should I pry into it, just because she happened to win a scholarship? That would be poor sport, wouldn’t it? To exact a price—the price of personal confidence from the winner? She won honestly and we are glad she did, so why speculate?” “The Greeks still live,” spoke Judith. “Jane, I believe if old friend Methuselah happened back for something he had forgotten, you would hand it out to him without asking the secret of his eight hundred years of life. Too personal for you. All righty. I shall agree, and I love the little curly-headed Helen. Also, I claim first round from the opposition when we start basketball and fight for Center. This is the sort of day that brings our game up even above the joy of seeing Marian Seaton die of envy. Did I tell you I had a letter from Visite? She is the French girl who came at the end of last season, you know, Adrienne’s friend.”