“First, because we had Nellie in the cast, and second, because they said she might get—flighty and land knows only what. I am sure they could not have meant she might get dangerous.” Rare sense for a freshman, Jane decided. All the other flings at helpless little Helen could not include that of being “dangerous at large.” Jane considered for a moment. Clarisse waited, eager and hopeful. “And just what was it you wanted me to do?” asked Jane finally. “Why, to call a meeting, and announce our play, and put Helen down as a special attraction. Her violin is wonderful, and you know it is the very first time she has consented to play in public.” Clarisse was quite breathless now, and Jane fell back bewildered. After all, the little girls demanded nothing extraordinary, but simple as the request was, Jane could not promise to grant it. “I fear Helen would not like that,” she replied carefully. “You know artists are very queer about any publicity previous to their grand debut. And Helen has such a wonderful concert planned for her real coming out,” said Jane. “Oh, but just here in school couldn’t matter. Really, Miss Allen, we will be completely lost if you do not assist us,” and again the dimples melted into little leaks, that threatened to overflow at the mouth ends. “All right, dear. I will see if I can arrange it,” assented Jane, “but you know I have to consult the executive committee about calling a meeting. We might do it more simply, and more effectively, some other way. At any rate, you may count on us. We won’t see our little freshman outclassed by such underhand methods.” “That’s just it. Why don’t you tell Mrs. Weatherbee?” “Oh, it seems too silly! And besides you recall our pledge not to carry tales to the faculty! You wouldn’t have your president be the first to break the very rule she was most insistent upon adopting?” “Oh, no, that’s so,” agreed Clarisse. “I remember now, you did say we were not to carry tales. Very well, I am satisfied. I think, as a committee of one I have been quite a success, thanks to our president,” and she made a perky bow. CHAPTER XXI—THE TWO JAYS Alone, Jane pondered seriously over the new aspect her problem had assumed. Never had so absurd a story gained more prompt impetus—the result, presumably, of well-laid plans, the work of Marian Seaton. In her own generosity Jane would have made allowance even for her proclaimed enemy, but the width and breadth, to say nothing of the depths of this propaganda, were beyond her ken. “Strange,” she reflected, “Marian always makes a confidant of someone who, herself, is unlike our other girls.” This “someone” was just now Dolorez Vincez, the South American girl, obviously much older than her companions at Wellington, and certainly of an entirely different social cast. Dolorez had made things unpleasant for Helen on more than one occasion, although she seemed to avoid openly meeting her. An unseen power operating against her had been most effective.