LITMIR.BIZ

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was to go to "the city" with a group of "the worst boys of college," to get undeniably drunk, to do some piece of mischief. (Here was great licence in opinion, and in contradiction.)

      "Anyway he's to be suspended!" said Miss Rebecca with finality.

      "Suspended!" Miss Josie's voice rose in scorn. "Expelled! They said he was expelled."

      "In disgrace!" added Miss Sallie.

      Vivian Lane sat in the back room at the window, studying in the lingering light of the long June evening. At least, she appeared to be studying. Her tall figure was bent over her books, but the dark eyes blazed under their delicate level brows, and her face flushed and paled with changing feelings.

      She had heard—who, in the same house, could escape hearing the Misses Foote?—and had followed the torrent of description, hearsay, surmise and allegation with an interest that was painful in its intensity.

      "It's a shame!" she whispered under her breath. "A shame! And nobody to stand up for him!"

      She half rose to her feet as if to do it herself, but sank back irresolutely.

      A fresh wave of talk rolled forth.

      "It'll half kill his aunt."

      "Poor Miss Elder! I don't know what she'll do!"

      "I don't know what he'll do. He can't go back to college."

      "He'll have to go to work."

      "I'd like to know where—nobody'd hire him in this town."

      The girl could bear it no longer. She came to the door, and there, as they paused to speak to her, her purpose ebbed again.

      "My daughter, Vivian, Mrs. Williams," said her mother; and the other callers greeted her familiarly.

      "You'd better finish your lessons, Vivian," Mr. Lane suggested.

      "I have, father," said the girl, and took a chair by the minister's wife. She had a vague feeling that if she were there, they would not talk so about Morton Elder.

      Mrs. Williams hailed the interruption gratefully. She liked the slender girl with the thoughtful eyes and pretty, rather pathetic mouth, and sought to draw her out. But her questions soon led to unfortunate results.

      "You are going to college, I suppose?" she presently inquired; and Vivian owned that it was the desire of her heart.

      "Nonsense!" said her father. "Stuff and nonsense, Vivian! You're not going to college."

      The Foote girls now burst forth in voluble agreement with Mr. Lane. His wife was evidently of the same mind; and Mrs. Williams plainly regretted her question. But Vivian mustered courage enough to make a stand, strengthened perhaps by the depth of the feeling which had brought her into the room.

      "I don't know why you're all so down on a girl's going to college. Eve Marks has gone, and Mary Spring is going—and both the Austin girls. Everybody goes now."

      "I know one girl that won't," was her father's incisive comment, and her mother said quietly, "A girl's place is at home—'till she marries."

      "Suppose I don't want to marry?" said Vivian.

      "Don't talk nonsense," her father answered. "Marriage is a woman's duty."

      "What do you want to do?" asked Miss Josie in the interests of further combat. "Do you want to be a doctor, like Jane Bellair?"

      "I should like to very much indeed," said the girl with quiet intensity. "I'd like to be a doctor in a babies' hospital."

      "More nonsense," said Mr. Lane. "Don't talk to me about that woman! You attend to your studies, and then to your home duties, my dear."

      The talk rose anew, the three sisters contriving all to agree with Mr. Lane in his opinions about college, marriage and Dr. Bellair, yet to disagree violently among themselves.

      Mrs. Williams rose to go, and in the lull that followed the liquid note of a whippoorwill met the girl's quick ear. She quietly slipped out, unnoticed.

      The Lane's home stood near the outer edge of the town, with an outlook across wide meadows and soft wooded hills. Behind, their long garden backed on that of Miss Orella Elder, with a connecting gate in the gray board fence. Mrs. Lane had grown up here. The house belonged to her mother, Mrs. Servilla Pettigrew, though that able lady was seldom in it, preferring to make herself useful among two growing sets of grandchildren.

      Miss Elder was Vivian's favorite teacher. She was a careful and conscientious instructor, and the girl was a careful and conscientious scholar; so they got on admirably together; indeed, there was a real affection between them. And just as the young Laura Pettigrew had played with the younger Orella Elder, so Vivian had played with little Susie Elder, Miss Orella's orphan niece. Susie regarded the older girl with worshipful affection, which was not at all unpleasant to an emotional young creature with unemotional parents, and no brothers or sisters of her own.

      Moreover, Susie was Morton's sister.

      The whippoorwill's cry sounded again through the soft June night. Vivian came quickly down the garden path between the bordering beds of sweet alyssum and mignonette. A dew-wet rose brushed against her hand. She broke it off, pricking her fingers, and hastily fastened it in the bosom of her white frock.

      Large old lilac bushes hung over the dividing fence, a thick mass of honeysuckle climbed up by the gate and mingled with them, spreading over to a pear tree on the Lane side. In this fragrant, hidden corner was a rough seat, and from it a boy's hand reached out and seized the girl's, drawing her down beside him. She drew away from him as far as the seat allowed.

      "Oh Morton!" she said. "What have you done?"

      Morton was sulky.

      "Now Vivian, are you down on me too? I thought I had one friend."

      "You ought to tell me," she said more gently. "How can I be your friend if I don't know the facts? They are saying perfectly awful things."

      "Who are?"

      "Why—the Foote girls—everybody."

      "Oh those old maids aren't everybody, I assure you. You see, Vivian, you live right here in this old oyster of a town—and you make mountains out of molehills like everybody else. A girl of your intelligence ought to know better."

      She drew a great breath of relief. "Then you haven't—done it?"

      "Done what? What's all this mysterious talk anyhow? The prisoner has a right to know what he's charged with before he commits himself."

      The girl was silent, finding it difficult to begin.

      "Well, out with it. What do they say I did?" He picked up a long dry twig and broke it, gradually, into tiny, half-inch bits.

      "They say you—went to the city—with a lot of the worst boys in college——"

      "Well? Many persons go to the city every day. That's no crime, surely. As for 'the worst boys in college,'"—he laughed scornfully—"I suppose those old ladies think if a fellow smokes a cigarette or says 'darn' he's a tough. They're mighty nice fellows, that bunch—most of 'em. Got some ginger in 'em, that's all. What else?"

      "They say—you drank."

      "O ho! Said I got drunk, I warrant! Well—we did have a skate on that time, I admit!" And he laughed as if this charge were but a familiar joke.

      "Why Morton Elder! I think it is a—disgrace!"

      "Pshaw, Vivian!—You ought to have more sense. All the fellows get gay once in a while. A college isn't a young ladies' seminary."

      He reached out and got hold of her hand again, but she drew it away.

      "There was something else," she said.

      "What was it?" he questioned sharply. "What did they say?"

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