“And we could have a Mystery Auction,” interposed Marian Barber eagerly.

“What on earth is a ’Mystery Auction’?” inquired Nora and Jessica in a breath.

“Why we write notes to every one in Oakdale, asking for some kind of contribution, anything from a jar of pickles to hand-painted china.  Then all these things are tied up in packages and auctioned off to the highest bidder.  There is a whole lot of money in it, for people often try to outbid each other, and the fun of the thing is that no one knows what he or she is bidding on.”

“Marian Barber,” exclaimed Grace, “that’s a positive inspiration!  You clever, clever girl!”

“Oh, don’t think for a minute that I originated the idea,” said Marian hastily.  “A cousin of mine wrote me about it last winter.  They had a ‘Mystery Auction’ at a bazaar that was held in the town she lives.”

“Well it’s a brilliant idea at any rate, and I can see us fairly coining money.  Now we must all work with a will and put the affair through in fine style,” responded Grace warmly.

“Oh, girls, the boys will be at home in time for it!” exclaimed Jessica in rapture.

“Sure enough,” said Nora, “and won’t I make Hippy work.  He’ll lose pounds before his vacation is over.  Grace, you must write and ask Tom Gray to come.”

Now that the question of the bazaar was settled, the Phi Sigma Tau went to work with a will.  The services of the majority of the seniors were enlisted and notes were written to every one in Oakdale who was likely to feel even a faint interest in the movement.  Eva Allen’s brother, who was an artist, made a number of attractive posters and these were tacked up in public places where they at once attracted attention.

The Oakdale National Guard loaned tents, and public-spirited merchants willingly loaned draperies, flags, banners, and in fact, almost anything they were asked for.

As for donations, they fairly poured in, and the girls watched the growing collection with mingled rapture and despair.

“We’ll have to sit up every night this week in order to get all these things wrapped,” sighed Grace, on the Monday afternoon before Thanksgiving, as she stood resting after a spirited rehearsal of the dance that she and Miriam Nesbit were to do, and which was to be one of the features of the gypsy camp.

“And the decorating is only about half done, too,” she continued.  “Thank goodness school closed to-day.  We’ll just have to live here until Thursday, and work, work, work.”

“‘Clear the way for progress on the fly,’” sang out a voice behind them, and the group of startled girls turned to face a stout young man who charged into their midst with a hop, skip and a jump.

“Hippy!” shrieked Nora in delight.  “And David and Reddy, and yes—­ Tom, too!”

“‘Oh, frabjous day, calloooh, callay,’” cried Hippy shaking hands all around.  “It seems ages since I saw you girls.  How well you all look, only you’re not looking at me.  These other good-for-nothing fellows are getting all the attention.  Hello, Miriam,” he called to Miriam Nesbit, who ran eagerly across the floor to meet the newcomers.  “There’s a prize package for you, too.  It’s outside the door shaking the snow off its coat.”