“So am I,” laughed Grace.  “I brought my golf bag to Overton, but didn’t play much in the fall.  I’m going to try it, though, as soon as the ground is in shape.”

“How nice!” exclaimed Helen Burton, with a friendly smile that lighted up her rather plain face and brought the dimples to her cheeks.  “We can have some nice times together.  You had better come with us now.”

“Thank you, I shall be pleased to go,” replied Grace politely.  “I have never been in Wellington House.  It is an upper class house, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” replied Mabel.  “It is given up entirely to juniors and seniors.  It is the oldest house on the campus, and very difficult to get into.  Personally, I like Holland House better.  I had an opportunity to get into Wellington House last fall, but refused it.”  Grace noted that Mabel frowned slightly and set her lips as though determined to shut out an unpleasant memory.

To reach Wellington House was merely a matter of crossing one end of the campus.  Grace looked about her curiously as they were ushered into the long, old-fashioned hall that extended almost to the back of the house.  They entered the parlor at one side of the hall and sat down while Mabel excused herself and ran upstairs after Leona Rowe, the junior she had come to see.  She had hardly disappeared before a flaxen head was poked in the door and a surprised voice said:  “For goodness sake, Helen Burton, when did you rain down?  You are just the one I want to see.  What do you think of to-morrow’s German?  I can’t translate it.  It’s frightfully hard.  Come up and help me, dearest.”

The ingratiating emphasis she placed on the word “dearest” caused both Grace and Helen to laugh.

“All right, I will for just two minutes.  Want to come upstairs, Miss Harlowe?”

Grace smilingly shook her head.  “I’ll stay here in case Mabel comes back.”

“Thank you,” returned Helen.  “Miss Harlowe, this is Miss Redmond.”

The two girls exchanged friendly nods.  Then the flaxen-haired girl led the way, followed by Helen Burton, and Grace settled herself in the depths of a big chair to await their return.  As she sat idly wondering what the subject of her next theme should be, the sound of voices reached her ears, proceeding from the back parlor that adjoined the room in which Grace sat.  Two girls had entered the other room, but the heavy portieres which hung in the dividing arch, hid them from view.  The voices, however, Grace recognized with a start as belonging to Beatrice Alden, the disagreeable junior, and Alberta Wicks of the sophomore class.

“I’ll be glad when my sophomore year is over,” grumbled Alberta Wicks.  “Mary and I have asked for a room here.  I hope we get it.  If we do we will be able, at least, to eat our meals without the eternal accompaniment of Miss Harlowe’s and Miss Nesbit’s doings.  Ever since that basketball game, Stuart Hall has talked of nothing else.”