The rest, which Marjorie so sadly needed, was the best beautifier the girl could have employed. Had her mind been on such things, her mirror would have told her, as she dressed, that she looked better. Her color was as fresh and pink as the roses she wore at her waist, and her eyes sparkled with greater brilliancy than ever. Marjorie, modest as she always was, could not but be conscious that the eyes of everyone were turned approvingly towards her as she entered the dance hall on the arm of her handsome partner. When the music of the first dance began, and she started off with Griffith, she felt a thrill of pride at the grace of his dancing. Momentarily, she was glad that she had not invited John; no other young man of her acquaintance possessed all the social requisites to such an extent as Griffith. And, as she had remarked to Lily, they had only three dances together, and practically no intermissions, for as class president, it was her duty and her privilege to act as chief hostess. She tripped around from one group to another, introducing people, talking to everybody, sometimes taking Griffith with her, sometimes leaving him with Doris Sands or Mae Van Horn or Lily--wherever there seemed to be an interesting group. She had no time for strolls in the moonlight between dances, or intimate little tete-a-tetes on the porch; she used every minute of her evening for somebody else. When the last waltz finally started, Griffith declared that he had seen nothing of her during the evening. “But you haven’t been bored?” she asked, with concern. “No, indeed!” he replied, with sincerity. “Your friends are all charming!” It was when they were strolling back to the school that Griffith asked, “What do you intend to do this summer, Marjorie?” “I really don’t know,” she replied. “I want to get away somewhere, and get good and strong for college next year.” “Why not come to Maine?” suggested the young man. “Yes, I’d like that--but I don’t know what papa is planning. It all depends upon him. But he won’t tell me a word.” “Aren’t the Girl Scouts going camping?” asked Griffith. “No; the captain, Mrs. Remington, couldn’t go, and at present we have no lieutenant, so we let the whole matter drop. I’m sorry, too, for I know I’m going to miss it all dreadfully.” “And when do you expect to know your father’s plan?” “Tomorrow, I hope,” she answered. They had reached the school now, and they paused at the doorway. Marjorie put out her hand. “You can’t come tomorrow?” she asked. “No, I’m sorry,” said Griffith. “I’d love to, but we have a frat meeting. You’ll write?” “Yes, if you write first. Well, goodnight!” The young man pressed her hand. “Goodnight--and thanks for a wonderful evening,” he said.