"And she has talked to me over and over again of you," returned Constance warmly.
"Now that you know each other, you can postpone getting chummy until later," laughed Marjorie. "Mother will wonder what has happened to us. She'll think you didn't come on that train if we don't put in an appearance."
Possessing herself of Mary's traveling bag she led the way with Mary through the station and out to the opposite side where Mrs. Dean awaited them. Constance followed with Mr. Raymond. In her heart she experienced an odd disappointment. Was it her imagination, or did Mary's cordiality seem a trifle forced? Perhaps it would have been better if she had not accompanied Marjorie to the station to meet Mary. Perhaps Mary was a trifle hurt that her chum had not come alone. She decided that she would not ride to Marjorie's home with the party, although she had been invited to dine with them that night. She could not bear to think of intruding. She managed to answer Mr. Raymond's courteous remarks, but her thoughts were not centered upon what he was saying. Without warning, her old-time diffidence settled down upon her like an enveloping cloak, and her one object was to slip away as quickly and as unobtrusively as possible.
"I think I had better not go home with you, Marjorie," she said in a low voice. They had reached the waiting automobile and Mary and Mrs. Dean were exchanging affectionate greetings.
"Oh, why not, Connie?" Marjorie's happy face clouded. "You know we'd love to have you, wouldn't we, Mary?"
"Of course." Mary again smiled at Constance, but again her smile lacked warmth.
Constance shook her head almost obstinately.
"I think I had better not come," she repeated, and in her speech there was a shadowy return of the old baffling reserve that had so greatly disturbed Marjorie in the early stages of their friendship.
"But you promised to take dinner with us to-night," remarked Marjorie.
"I – I have changed my mind. It will be best for me to go home, I think. I'll come over to-morrow."
Mrs. Dean added her persuasions, but Constance was firm, and, after bidding a courteous farewell to the Deans' guests, she hurried away, more agitated than she cared to admit.
"Why, what ails Constance, Marjorie?" asked Mrs. Dean in surprise.
"Nothing – that is, I don't know." Marjorie looked after her friend's rapidly disappearing figure, a puzzled expression in her brown eyes.
Mary Raymond viewed Marjorie with a faint frown. It was rather provoking in Marjorie to express so much concern over this Constance Stevens. After their long separation she felt that her chum's every thought ought to be for her alone. And in that instant a certain fabled green-eyed monster, that Mary had never believed could exist for her, suddenly sprang into life and whispered to her that, perhaps, after all, she was not first in Marjorie Dean's heart.
CHAPTER III
SOWING THE SEED OF DISCORD
"Before you talk of another single thing, Mary Raymond, please tell me what you mean by a 'mysterious mission' that is 'part sad and part glad,'" exclaimed Marjorie.
Mr. Raymond was occupying the front seat of the automobile, beside Mrs. Dean, who drove the car, a birthday present from her husband, and the two girls had the tonneau of the automobile to themselves. They had scarcely deposited Mary's luggage on the floor of the car and settled themselves for the short ride to the Deans' home when Marjorie had made her eager inquiry into the nature of the "mysterious mission" that had so aroused her curiosity.
"Well," began Mary, brightening, "father and I have come to see you on a mission, but the only mystery about it is that you don't as yet know why we've come. I thought 'mysterious mission' looked rather well on paper so I set it down."
"But you're going to tell me about it this instant, you wicked, tantalizing girl," insisted Marjorie with pretended sternness.
"I thought perhaps you might be able to guess certain things from my letter," continued Mary. "You see, I wrote you that mother would have to go to Colorado for the winter and – "
"You are going with her," supplemented Marjorie.
"No, that's a wild guess. I'm not going west with her. Father says I must stay in the East and go through my sophomore year in high school."
"But you can't stay at home by yourself, Mary. Just think how dreadful that would be for you, with your father away most of the time," reminded Marjorie.
Mary's father was a traveling salesman for a large furniture manufactory, and spent the greater part of his time on the road.
"That's just the point," responded Mary. "I know I can't stay at home alone. Mother's illness and what is to become of me when father goes on the road again is the sad part of it, but the glad part is – oh, Marjorie, can't you guess now?" Mary caught Marjorie's hand in hers. "We've come all the way to Sanford to see if," her voice rose high with excitement, "there isn't a little corner in the Dean barracks that a certain lieutenant can call her own for this year and – "
"Mary!" It was Marjorie's turn to become excited. "Do you really mean that you wish to come to live with me and enter Sanford High? That we'll be sophomores together?"
Mary clung to Marjorie's hand and nodded. For a moment she was too near to tears for speech. But they were tears of happiness. Marjorie really desired her for a best friend after all. Her sudden jealousy of Constance Stevens vanished.
"I should say that was a glad part of your mission," laughed Marjorie happily. "I don't know what I've ever done to deserve such good fortune. Mother will be glad, too. She loves you almost as much as she loves me."
"Oh, Mother," Marjorie leaned impulsively forward, "Mary's coming to live with me this year while her mother is in Colorado. You'll have two lieutenants instead of one to look after. We are going to win sophomore honors together and be promoted to be captains next June!"
"There," declared Mr. Raymond with comical resignment, "now you have let the cat out of the bag with a vengeance, Mary Raymond. All this time I had been planning to ask Mrs. Dean, in my most ingratiating manner, if she thought she might possibly make room for a certain very frisky member of my family for a while. I had intended to proceed carefully and diplomatically so that she wouldn't be too much shocked at such a prospect, but now – "
"It's all settled, isn't it, Mother?" interrupted Marjorie. "You are just as anxious as I for Mary to come and live with us, aren't you?"
"Shall I stop the car in the middle of the street and assure you of my willingness to increase my regiment?" laughed Mrs. Dean.
"No, no," protested Marjorie. "Let's hurry home as fast as we can and talk it over. We're only two squares from our house now. Besides, I've planned everything already. Mary can have the spare bedroom next to my house." Marjorie always referred to her room as her "house." "There's only the bath between and we'll use that together, and have a regular house of our own. Oh, Mary, won't it be perfectly splendid?"
Regardless of what passersby might think, Mary and Marjorie embraced with an enthusiasm that threatened to land them both in the tonneau of the rapidly moving car, while their elders smiled at this reckless display of affection.
The automobile had hardly come to a full stop on the broad driveway, that wound through the wide stretch of lawn that was one of the chief beauties of the Deans' pretty home, when Marjorie swung open the door and skipped nimbly out of the car with, "Welcome home, Mary!"
Mary was only an instant behind Marjorie in leaving the car, and the two hugged each other afresh out of pure joy of living.
"Take Mary up to her room at once, dear," directed Mrs. Dean. "I'm sure she must be tired and hungry after her long ride in the train. We will have an early dinner to-night. I expect Mr. Dean home at almost any moment," she continued, turning to Mr. Raymond.
"Come on, Mary." Marjorie had lifted Mary's bag from the automobile. Now she stretched forth an inviting hand to Mary, and piloted her across the lawn and up the short stretch of stone walk to the front door. The door opened