Mary listened to all that was said and then, quietly but unmistakably, she put her foot down on Miss Parsons’ fashionable institution of learning.

I doubt if she herself could have given you all her reasons.

For one thing, the older she grew, the more democratic, the more American she was becoming.

Deep in her heart she thought the old original Spencers had done more for the world than any leaders of fashion who ever lived; and when she read or thought of those who had made America, her mind never went to smart society and its doings, but to those great, simple souls who had braved the wilderness in search of liberty and adventure—­who had toiled, and fought, and given their lives, unknown, unsung, but never in Mary’s mind to be forgotten.  And whenever she thought of travel, she found she would rather see the Rockies than the Alps, rather go to New Orleans than Old Orleans, rather visit the Grand Canyon than the Nile, and would infinitely rather cross the American continent and see three thousand miles of her own country, than cross the Atlantic and see three thousand miles of water that belonged to every one in general and no one in particular.

“But, my dear,” said Miss Cordelia, altogether taken aback, “you ought to go somewhere, you know.  Let me tell you about Miss Parsons’ school—­”

“It’s no use, Aunty.  I don’t want to go to Miss Parsons’ school—­”

“Where do you want to go then?”

Like most inspirations, it came like a flash.

“If I’m going anywhere, I want to go to college—­”

To college!  A Spencer girl—­or a Spicer—­going to college!  Miss Cordelia gasped.  If Mary had been noticing, she might not have pursued her inspiration further, but her mind was running along a breathless panorama of Niagara Falls, Great Lakes, Chicago, the farms of the Middle West, Yellowstone Park, geysers, the Old Man of the Mountain, Aztec ruins, redwood forests, orange groves and at the end of the vista—­like a statue at the end of a garden walk—­she imagined a great democratic institution of learning where one might conceivably be prepared to solve some of those problems which life seems to take such deep delight in presenting to us, with the grim command, “Not one step farther shall you go until you have answered this!”

“To college?” gasped Miss Cordelia.

“Yes,” said Mary, still intent upon her panorama, “there’s a good one in California.  I’ll look it up.”

The more Mary thought of it, the fonder she grew of her idea—­which is, I think, a human trait and true of nearly every one.  It was in vain that her aunts argued with her, pointing out the social advantages which she would enjoy from attending Miss Parsons’ School.  Mary’s objection was fundamental.  She simply didn’t care for those advantages.  Indeed, she didn’t regard them as advantages at all.

Helen did, though.

In her heart Helen had always longed to tread the stage of society—­to her mind, a fairyland of wit and gallantry, masquerades and music, to say nothing of handsome young polo players and titled admirers from foreign shores—­“big fools,” all of them, as you can guess, when dazzled by the smiles of Youth and Beauty.