She sat in a wretched little heap beneath the pines, and thoroughly despised Dorothy Richards. She had made a failure of the whole year—in grades, in conduct, in character. The first was bad enough, for she knew that Mary was right. It was she who was helping The Hermitage lose the cup—the scholarship cup which it had determined to win from Hathaway. The second was worse, for she had forfeited Miss Wallace’s confidence, and had aroused the righteous suspicion of the girls. But the last was worst of all! She had allowed herself to be weakly influenced by Imogene, had been disloyal to Priscilla and Virginia, had been very nearly dishonest, if not quite so, and had pitiably lost her own self-respect. And now, even though she was tired of it all, even though she desired deep in her heart to turn her rootlets into better soil, perhaps it was too late. Perhaps, after all, she was not strong enough. A brown thrasher, who sat on her newly-made nest in a near-by thicket and watched the girl beneath the pines, wondered perhaps at the strange ways of mortals. For even though the sun was bright and the whole world filled with joy, this girl all at once burst into tears, and cried between her sobs: “Oh, dear, what shall I do? I’ll never be any different—never! And Priscilla and Virginia will never like me again when they know about tonight!” But remorse, though quite appropriate under the circumstances, and doubtless likely to bear fruit in the future, was useless just at present. Dorothy soon realized that, and sat up again, much to the relief of the brown thrasher, who felt safer now that this strange person sobbed no more. A situation confronted her and must be met. Was there any way to save Vivian, and at the same time not implicate Imogene? Were Dorothy alone to blame, she would go to Miss Wallace and tell the whole story; but she knew that Miss Wallace had previously suspected Imogene with good cause, and she did not wish to run the risk of getting Imogene into further trouble, even though she might richly deserve it. Of course, Vivian might be easily persuaded to stay at home and not meet her knight-errant of the soda-fountain, who was to find her at seven o’clock by the birch tree; but that meant anger and certain revenge on the part of Imogene, besides the probability of the disappointed Leslie communicating his disappointment in such a way as would eventually reach the ears of some member of St. Helen’s faculty. The five-thirty warning bell found the question unsolved, and a sadly troubled Dorothy walked slowly homeward. She was purposely late to supper, for she did not wish to encounter Imogene or Vivian. As she left the wood-path and came out upon the campus, she saw hurrying down the hill a short, plump figure in a red sweater. Vivian, on the way to meet her knight!