The afternoon of June 24th, strange to relate, found Madelaine aboard a suburban trolley, headed for Springfield. Her face wore an expression of vague worry. In her calm eyes was dread. This while merrymaking at Mount Hadley was approaching its peak and no one was more urgently sought after than the girl whose school nickname had been “Old Mother Hubbard.” A letter had been responsible. It had been scrawled upon several sheets of expensive note paper bearing the crest of a Springfield hotel. It was a woman’s penmanship; Madelaine would have recognized to whom it belonged had no name been appended. But a name had been appended—Bernice Gridley’s name—and there was no ignoring the letter’s appeal. Reaching Springfield, Madelaine hurried to the hotel whither Bernice had preceded her by two days. It was then about six-thirty in the evening and a warm summer rain was shining on city walks and pavements, reflecting the first lamps of evening nebulously. Madelaine called Bernie in her room, announcing her arrival. Then she went upstairs. Bernie admitted her. The room was unlighted. Bernice threw her arms around Madelaine when the door had closed, despite the latter’s wet silken gossamer, before Madelaine had even found a place for her dripping umbrella. “I’m so glad you’ve come! You’re an old dear,” choked Bernie huskily. Despite the rain clouds and spring mist smothering the city, there was yet light enough in the lavish apartment for Madelaine to see that Bernie was in trouble, terrible trouble. “Old Mother Hubbard” stood her umbrella in the bath and threw her gossamer over the nickel-work of the shower. She cast aside the mannish felt hat she had worn because of the wet and returned to where Bernie had dropped into a chair by the window. Madelaine took the rocker opposite, their knees almost touching. “What is it, dear—a man?” “Yes,” whispered Bernie, her voice poignant. “Just how bad——?” “Mother’s due to arrive in the morning, for Commencement. I can’t see her, Madge. I can’t see her again, ever!” Bernie fumbled for her handkerchief. She had braided her tawny hair in a single heavy cable; it fell down across her left shoulder and breast. She wore a Japanese kimono, incongruously flowered, with obi girdle. At nineteen the Dresden Doll was a Dresden Doll no longer. She had become a big-bodied girl with prominent, bony features, a small, narrow forehead, wide cheek bones, prominent nose and weak, sensuous mouth. The saving feature of her countenance was a deep dimple in her chin. It was a coy, devilish dimple and had wrought much damage. A type of Mona Lisa face, Bernie’s—without the Mona Lisa humor. Madelaine sat motionless, her hands relaxed along the chair arms. She was very calm, very grave. Only tender compassion lay upon her cameo features now. “How did it happen, dear?” she asked. “Do you want to tell me that?” “No! I want you to tell me—what I ought to do—what’s ahead for me. Oh, Madge! Madge! I’m so scared I want to die!”