“Frank Shirley arrested in disorderly house in Boston, held to await result of assault on another student. Possibly fatal. Get Sylvia home at once. Harley.” She stood perfectly rigid, staring at her mother. She could not realize the words, they swam before her in a maze. The paper fluttered from her fingers. “It’s false!” she cried. “Do you expect me to believe that? It’s a plot! It’s some trick they’ve played on Frank!” Her mother, frightened by the pallor of her face, put her arms around her. “My daughter—” she began. “What have you done about this? I mean—to find out if it is true?” “We telegraphed Harley to write us full particulars.” “Oh, why did you send for me?” the girl exclaimed, passionately. “If Frank is arrested, I ought to be there!” “Sylvia!” cried her mother, aghast. “Have you read the message? Don’t you see _where_ he was arrested?” Yes, Sylvia had read, but what could she make of it? In her mind was a medley of emotions: horror at what Frank had done, disbelief that he had done it, shame of a subject of which she had been taught not to think, anxiety for her lover in trouble—all these contended within her. “The wretch!” exclaimed “Miss Margaret.” “To drag my child’s name in the mire!” “Hush!” cried Sylvia, between her teeth. “It is not true! It’s somebody trying to ruin him! It’s a horrible, horrible lie!” “But, Sylvia! The telegram came from your cousin!” “I don’t care! It’s some tale they’ve told to Harley!” “But—he says Frank is arrested!” “Oh, I ought to go to him! I ought to find out the truth! Frank is not that kind of man!” “My child,” ventured “Miss Margaret,” “how much do you know about men?” Sylvia stared at her mother. Vague questions trembled on her lips; but she saw there was no help in that quarter. “I have always kept my daughter innocent!” the other was saying. “He ought to be killed for coming into our home and dragging you into such shame!” Sylvia stood silent, utterly bewildered. She knew that there were dreadful things in the world, of which she had gathered only the vaguest hints. “A disorderly house!” She had heard the name—she had heard other such names; she knew that these were unmentionable places, where wicked women lived and vile things were done; also she knew that men went there—but surely not the men she knew, surely not gentlemen, not those who ventured to ask for her love! But why should she torment herself with such thoughts now? This charge against Frank could not be true! “How long will it be,” she demanded, “before we can have the letter from Harley?” “At least another day, your father says.” “And there is nothing else we can do?” She tried to think. “We might telephone to Harley.” “Your Aunt Nannie suggested that, but your father would not have such a matter talked about over the ’phone.”