It was an interesting subject to John, and he spoke glowingly of the girl’s courage, her sincerity, her integrity. He told of her career as a Girl Scout, of the prizes and merit-badges she had won, of her distinction in being selected patrol leader of the troop which represented the United States scouts at the World Conference in Canada. Her record would not be complete, he thought, if he did not mention some of the difficulties and trials she had encountered during her boarding school life, and so he told Dorothy about Ruth Henry, and her mean actions against Marjorie; and as he related these incidents, he noticed that his companion listened with blazing eyes. Probably the story would do her good; in her interest in the other girl, she could forget her own troubles for a time. “Why, she’s wonderful!” she cried, admiringly, when John had finished. “And she’s a Girl Scout officer now?” “Yes, a Girl Scout lieutenant!” said John, proudly. Dorothy seemed to be lost in thought. “I used to know some Girl Scouts,” she said, more as if she were talking to herself than to her companion, “but I can’t remember their names now. If they come to me, I’ll tell them to you, so you can ask your friend, when you write, whether she knows them.” “But I never write to her,” said John, softly. “Why not?” asked Dorothy, in amazement. “Well, she promised to spend part of her vacation at some resort with mother and me, and she suddenly changed her mind, left me out of the question, and went out on a ranch instead. But it wasn’t just that--I didn’t blame her a bit for liking that better--only she didn’t take the trouble to explain, even after her plans were made. She simply waited for me to find out through somebody else--and then she practically laughed at my chagrin!” “Oh, no!” protested Dorothy. “You misunderstood her! If she’s the kind of girl you’ve been telling me about, she couldn’t do that. She was waiting for a special opportunity to tell you all about it.” “I wonder!” mused John. “I wish I believed that. But she has never written!” “Naturally--if you haven’t! Girls don’t write first.” John was silent for a moment; that aspect of the situation had never occurred to him. “Perhaps you’re right,” he admitted, finally. “Do you think I ought to write, Dorothy?” “I do!” replied the girl emphatically, so absorbed in her thought that she had not noticed his use of her first name. “Then I will!” he said. That night he wrote a friendly, but impersonal letter to Marjorie, ignoring their silence. But in spite of the fact that he knew Jack had told about the dance, he never mentioned Dorothy Snyder’s name, or alluded to her in any way. CHAPTER XII. THE PACK TRIP. Before Marjorie had time to carry out her resolution to write to John Hadley, the mail came in, bringing her Jack’s letter.