"I was never her friend, nor she mine," asserted Mary with a positive shake of her head. "I was jealous of Constance and was glad to find someone besides myself who didn't like her. I never knew the true story of the pin until Jerry----" She paused, coloring deeply. "So Jerry told you. That is just like her. She is the kindest-hearted girl in the world. Next to you two, I like her best of all my schoolmates." Marjorie's affectionate tones bespoke her deep regard for the stout girl whose matter-of-fact ways and funny sayings were a perpetual joy. "If only I had listened to you and Connie in the first place." Mary sighed. "I've spoiled my sophomore year and tried hard enough to spoil yours. And there's so little of it left! I won't have time to show you how sorry I am and how much I care." "We will begin now and make the most of what is left of it," proposed Marjorie gently. Then she added, "Jerry didn't know all that happened last year. I would like to tell you about it." "Please do," urged Mary humbly. Marjorie told the story of her first year in Sanford, frequently turning to Constance for confirmation. When she had finished Mary was silent. She had no words with which to express her utter contrition. "Now you know our sad history," smiled Marjorie, with a kindly attempt at lightening the burden of self-reproach Mary bore. "But neither of you has told _me_ how Mary happened to find Charlie to-night," reminded Constance. "I am anxious to know. This is the first time he ever ran so far away." "Oh, no, you forget the night he went to Mignon's----" Mary broke off shortly, red with embarrassment. She had not intended to speak of this. Constance's positive assertion had caught her off her guard. "Went to Mignon's?" was the questioning chorus of her two listeners. Mary was obliged to enlighten them. "I wondered if he ever told you, Connie. He promised he wouldn't," she ended. "And he never told, the little rascal," was Constance's quick reply. "No one except the maid knew it, and you may be sure she never said a word." "It was that night I came to my senses." Mary smiled a trifle wistfully. "I saw myself as others saw me. You thought I was grieving over Mignon, Marjorie. But I wasn't. It was my own shortcomings that bothered me. Now I must tell you about to-night, and then you will know everything about me." Constance received the account of Mignon's attempt to supplant her in the operetta with no trace of resentment. "I ought to be angry with her, but I can't. She has suffered more to-night than I would have if her plan had succeeded. Poor Mignon, I wonder if she will ever wake up?"