Although Mignon was unaware of the fact, there had been an amazed witness to the final scene in her little drama. A fair-haired girl had come up just in time to hear her heartless speech and see her drive away, leaving a small, perplexed youngster on the sidewalk. That girl was Mary Raymond. She had steadily refused Marjorie's earnest plea that she attend the much-talked-of performance of "The Rebellious Princess," and directly after dinner that evening, on the plea of mailing a letter, had slipped from the house on one of her melancholy, soul-searching walks which she had become so fond of taking. Convinced that she was an utter failure, imbued with a daily growing sense of her own unfitness to be the friend of a girl like Marjorie Dean, Mary was plunged into the depths of humiliation and unhappiness. This alone had been the cause of the marked change in her that Marjorie had innocently attributed to Mignon's defection. In her sad little soul there was now no bitterness against Constance Stevens. Quite by chance she had one day not long past encountered Jerry Macy in Sargent's, alone. Touched by her woe-begone air, Jerry had taken pains to draw her out. With her usual shrewdness the stout girl had discovered the real cause of Mary's depression, and kindly advised her to have a heart-to-heart talk with Marjorie. Jerry had also made it a point to inform Mary, so far as she knew the details, of the trouble over the butterfly pins during Marjorie's freshman year, and of Mignon's cruel treatment of Constance. Distinctly to Jerry's credit, she told no one afterward of that chance meeting, yet she secretly hoped that what she had said would have its effect upon Mary. Overwhelmed with shame, Mary had left the talkative, stout girl and dragged herself home, in an agony of humiliation that can be better imagined than described. She felt that she could never forgive herself for the ignoble thoughts she had harbored against innocent Constance Stevens, and she was still more certain that she could never ask either Marjorie or Constance to forgive _her_. Again and again she had tried to bring herself to approach Marjorie and humbly sue for pardon. The weight of her own troubled conscience prevented her from yielding, and thus she kept her sorrow locked in her aching heart and waited dejectedly for the day when she must leave the Deans' pleasant home, taking with her nothing but bitter self-reproach for her own folly. It was in this black mood that Mary had wandered forth that evening and straight into the path of the very thing that was destined to bring her peace. Mignon had hardly driven away when Mary caught the venturesome youngster in her arms. The boy gave a jubilant little shout as he saw who held him. Mary, however, was still at a loss regarding the meaning of what she had seen.