“Then, Dick, we must be careful. Such a manifestation as flowers spells—trouble.” “What do you mean, Clare?” “I mean that Toney and Tim are Marian’s best workers, and when they fall to our side with flowers! Look out!” “I am willing to take a chance with anyone but Dolorez Vincez, and must admit she is too much for us.” “I think you are right, Dicky duck. But how do I look? Like my wings?” “Wonderful. But the left is a big scough-gee! There, that’s better. What do you think of the shawl? I borrowed it from Maggie and promised to return it without getting the folds out—an utter impossibility.” They were almost dressed for the big event—the Barn Swifts’ show. As hinted at, the scene was laid in London, but more than that could not be even hinted at—it would all come out in the Barn. Troups of freshmen trooped—no other word would describe the going back and forth to the big barn—all afternoon and now, that it was almost time for the curtain to go up, a silence, formidable in its import, settled on the stretch of road leading to the gaily lighted auditorium commonly known as the Barn. Every seat had been taken, and as Clare anticipated, an overflow was imminent. Faculty, grads, undergrads, and all the sororities turned out in full force, to do credit to the inspired freshmen, and that a real artist, Helen Powderly, would render “original compositions, including the famous ‘Wellington Sonata’” added not a little zest to the promised program. As a curtain raiser Weasie Blair made some announcements. These included one for the Flippers’ Pop-Corn Sale, another for a Musicale to be given in aid of the Shut-ins, a call to arms—which translated meant that such girls as had any of the War Samplers, being finished for the Mirabile Dictu, would please send them in by Wednesday. The obsequies over, Weasie bowed prettily, and the real show proceeded. Janet Clark played beautifully—some martial music on the old square piano, the same piano standing up remarkably under the strain of use, of ill use, and catalogue changes. A second curtain reluctantly hitched itself up, revealing the stage setting—improvised wilds of London—if there be any such, the scenes all carefully laid in discarded wall paper, and strips of nondescript table oilcloth. The idea was all right—but the detail a little sketchy. Applause was easier to obtain than dramatic action, and what ever the latter failed the former supplied. Dickey Ripple, in Maggie’s shawl, made a very pathetic picture, sitting by the wet roadside, with great snowflakes fluttering down. It was Janet Clark’s task to take care of the snowstorm, as she had only to perform on the piano otherwise, and Janet was never known to be accurate. Consequently her storm was heavy—too heavy for snow. More like an avalanche, and the paper flakes at times acted as if some one had ground out the motto slips from the upper flies. Nevertheless the effect was thrilling, and Dickey in the snow brought forth rapturous applause.