“Yeth, that ith right,” nodded Grace.  “No poithon cup for uth.”

“Taste it, darlin’,” urged Jane.

Harriet with a good natured smile dipped her spoon in daintily, carrying some of the steaming soup to her lips.  She tasted the consomme gingerly, then took another spoonful, and hurriedly put the spoon back in the dish.  A horrified expression appeared on the face of the Meadow-Brook girl.

“There!  What did I tell you?” cried Margery.

“What is the trouble?” asked Miss Partridge.

“Oh-h-h!” gasped Harriet, making a desperate effort to control herself.

A girl on the other side of the table from Miss Burrell, sampled the soup, then hastily dropped her spoon.  Margery followed suit a moment later.

“How is it?” questioned Hazel.

“Please don’t ask me,” declared Margery gloomily.

Miss Elting made a wry face when she tasted the consomme, but said nothing.  Some went on eating, others laid down their spoons and leaned back in their chairs.  Tommy was the first to break the silence that had settled over the table.

“There ith thomething the matter with thith thoup,” she declared in a loud voice.

“That’s what I say,” answered a voice.

“And I, and I, and I,” cried other voices.

“Yes, I agree with you,” answered Miss Partridge gravely.  “Harriet what did you put in the soup?”

“The usual ingredients.”

Mrs. Livingston at this juncture sampled the soup.  Her face darkened.  She swallowed a spoonful, then quickly laid the spoon on the soup plate.

Harriet had shrunk back into her chair.  A deep flush rose to her face.  To cover her confusion she essayed to take some more soup, but the effort was a failure.  She simply could not eat the consomme.

“It tathteth to me like thoap,” declared Tommy.

“I believe it is soap,” spoke up Patricia Scott.  “How perfectly frightful!”

“I am afraid, Miss Burrell,” said Mrs. Livingston, “that you have lost the ‘honor’ for this season.  This consomme seems to be a dismal failure.  This of course does not preclude you from taking up some other branch of cookery and winning an ’honor’.”

Harriet was on the verge of tears, but she held herself under good control.  Her humiliation was apparent only in her flaming cheeks and almost imperceptible beads of perspiration that stood out on her forehead.

“This is a matter that must be looked into, Harriet,” said the Chief Guardian.  “Young ladies, eat no more of the soup.  There is something seriously wrong with it.  It tastes like soap to me, too; I am free to admit that.  I hope no one has been playing pranks,” fixing a keen glance on Harriet’s face.

“Oh, Mrs. Livingston,” cried Harriet, shocked almost beyond words.

“I am not accusing you of any such thing, my dear,” explained the Chief Guardian.  “You would be unlikely to play pranks and lose your ‘honor’ mark.  The guardians will please accompany me to the kitchen.  Young ladies, you will proceed with your dinner.  Upon second thought, Miss Partridge and Miss Elting will accompany me.  The other guardians may remain here.”