But quarreling would not do if Dorothy’s help were to be relied upon. Besides, the subject was distasteful, not to say dangerous. Imogene changed it hurriedly, and, by the time they reached The Hermitage, the plan had once more assumed at least an honest aspect, and Dorothy was once more laughing at the thought of the drenched Katrina. Meanwhile Miss Van Rensaelar was being entertained in the city, and regaling her friends with tales of the hopelessness of St. Helen’s in general, and The Hermitage in particular. Such regulations as to hours! Such babyish girls! No style! No callers! No amusements, except tennis and basketball, and riding on impossible horses! The truth was the trouble lay in Katrina Van Rensaelar, and not in St. Helen’s. Katrina, “on account of having been detained by illness at a Long Island house-party,” had not arrived at St. Helen’s until after Thanksgiving. She was too late to enter any of the regular classes, and had been ranked as a “Special.” The term really suited Katrina, for she was a special type of girl to which St. Helen’s had not often been accustomed. She had too little desire for study and too much money—too little friendliness and too many ancestors. Now, the possession of too many ancestors is difficult property to handle, especially in boarding-school, unless you are very expert in concealing your ownership. Katrina was not expert. On the contrary, disdaining concealment, she openly avowed her ownership, and on the few occasions in which she had been known to engage in conversation, had announced that she was of the only original Dutch patroon stock of New York. There were girls at St. Helen’s who were every bit as snobbish as Katrina with perhaps less to be snobbish about—Imogene was one—but somehow they had learned that if one wished to be popular, she concealed as far as possible her personal prejudices toward family and fortune. Katrina, glad to be away from St. Helen’s and to see some “life,” as she termed it, accepted with thanks an invitation to remain over night in the city. Her friends telegraphed her intention to Miss King, promising to bring her in by machine early in the morning. Miss Green and Miss Wallace were accordingly informed of the fact that she would not return, but, as such irregularities were not encouraged, said nothing of her absence to the girls. That night Vivian was a trifle late for supper, for truth to tell it had been Vivian whom Imogene had delegated to creep up-stairs with the water-filled pail, and hang it on a nail already provided above the door. “You’re lighter on your feet than I am, Viv,” she had explained, “and no one will hear you. Just because you hang it there doesn’t mean that you’re to blame at all. And remember, if to-night Miss Green questions you, you’re to say, ‘That’s the way they discipline snobbish cow-boys in Wyoming.’”