Marjorie Dean, College Sophomore | Page 4

doesn't want them; that I know. After they made the trouble for you,
she declared she would not let them come back if she could help it."
"I know." Marjorie was silent for a moment. "I had a talk with Miss
Remson in June, just before college closed," she said slowly. "I asked
her not to make a complaint to President Matthews on my account. I
told her it would not make any difference to me if they stayed at the
Hall. I did not believe it would make any to the rest of the girls. None
of us had spoken to them since the meeting in the living room. None of
us were in the least afraid of them. We had as much right to be at the
Hall as they. She finally promised to leave me out of it entirely, but she
intended to make complaint against them on her own account."
"Then they will soon be here, lug and luggage," predicted Leila with a
groan. "It is the way they treated you that would have counted against
them. Our president is a stickler for honor. He might readily expel them
for that very performance."
"That is what I was afraid of. I should not wish a student expelled from
Hamilton on my account. It was hard enough to have to call them to
account, as we did last March."
"They have had all summer to get over the shock. They'll be planning
new trouble this fall." Leila spoke with the confidence of belief. "Leslie
Cairns never gives up. Are you ready to fight them again, Beauty?"
Leila eyed Marjorie quizzically. She asked the question in the odd,
level tone she had used on first acquaintance with Marjorie.
"I think this: Our best way to fight the Sans is by influence. Their
influence, founded as it is on money values, is not beneficial to

Hamilton College. Ours should be founded strictly on observing the
traditions of Hamilton. We must make other students see that, too. We
can't lecture on the subject, of course. It will have to be a silent struggle
for nobler aims. I hardly know how to explain my meaning. I only wish
everyone else here had the same feeling of reverence for Hamilton that
I have."
Marjorie paused, quite at a loss to put into words all that was in her
heart. As they talked, the roadster had been spinning rapidly along
through Hamilton Estates. Suddenly the campus, of living velvety
green, appeared upon their view. The old, potent spell of its beauty
gripped the little lieutenant afresh. She had a desire to rise in the seat
and shout a welcome to her first Hamilton friend. A verse of a forest
hymn she had learned as a child in the grade schools sprang to her
memory. It was so well suited to the campus.
"I've always loved the campus, Leila," she began. "I call it my first
friend and the chimes my second. Those two things meant the most to
me when first we came to Hamilton and felt so out of the college
picture. Just now I happened to recall a verse of a song we used to sing
in school. It is a hymn to the forest, but it describes Hamilton campus
and all the college itself should stand for." Marjorie repeated the verse,
her eyes on the rolling emerald spread:
"Who rightly scans thy beauty, a world of truth must read; Of life and
hope and duty; our help in time of need. And I have read them often,
those words so true and clear, What heart that would not soften, thy
wisdom to revere."
CHAPTER II.
A CELEBRATION AT BARETTI'S.
The Lookouts' plan to entertain their friends at either Baretti's or the
Colonial on their first evening at Hamilton was over-ruled by Leila and
Vera. As Hortense Barlow, Robina Page and Portia Graham were still
missing from their circle of friends, they agreed to postpone their own
celebration until the missing ones should have returned to Hamilton.

Thus Vera and Leila gained their point and were in high glee over it.
Privately they were glad to have the Lookouts to themselves for the
evening, with the addition only of Katherine and Helen.
The warm September day had vanished into a soft, balmy night,
garnished by a full, silvery moon. The road to Baretti's was light as day
and the nine girls, clad in delicate-hued summer frocks, added to the
pale beauty of the night. They were in high spirits, as the incessant
murmur of their voices, punctuated by frequent ripples of light laughter,
amply testified.
Entering the quaint, stately restaurant, the Lookouts stopped to pay
courteous respects to Guiseppe Baretti, the proud proprietor, a small,
somber-eyed Italian. Their frequent patronage of Baretti's during