“What say?” she muttered sleepily.

“Up,” answered Jane.  “Ever hear that little word before?”

“Yep, pony riding,” drawled Judith.  “Up, up, one, two, three, go!” and at this Judith sprang up with such vigor and volume (in point of scope) that she sprang over the neighboring bed and swooped down on Jane’s hat box!  Her black hair now fell fearlessly over the embroidered forget-me-nots, and her bare feet shot in their usual skating strike.

“Good thing that hat box is the new kind,” commented Jane, “but even at that it will hardly serve as a divan.  Still, I am glad you are up.  Do you know where you are, Judy Stearns?  And what you are expected to do today?”

“All of those things and additional horrors are seething through my poor brain,” moaned Judith, “but a moment ago I was having a fast set of tennis with adorable Jack St. John—­Sanzie they call him.  Have I told you about him, Jane darling?” Judith gathered herself and her feet up from the black enameled box and glided over to her own corner.

“No, Judy, I do not recall Sanzie,” replied Jane, who was already armed with soap and towel for the lavatory.  “But keep the story.  I shouldn’t like to get interested in boy tennis just now.  We must forget—­” proclaimed Jane in tones so dramatic a poet calendar on the wall trembled in the vocal waves.  “Forget! forget——­” and Jane was outside the door with a sweeping wave of her big fuzzy towel and a rather alarming thrust of her fist full of soap.

“Ye-eah,” groaned Judith, “forget is the word, Sanzie and tennis.”  She glanced at the tiny clock on a shelf of the bracket type.  It was Jane’s idea the clock should not be cluttered with surroundings.

“Gee-whiz!  It is late, and this the first day.  Glad the others on this corridor are all nice and punctual.”

In bathrobe and slippers Judith soon followed Jane down the long hall.  Neither dallied long in the plunge, for Judith was wide awake now, and presently, after dressing and patting herself and belongings into place, she confronted Jane with this:  “I heard Dozia Dalton last night.  And I know there will be trouble about the farmer girl.  Jane, tell me, is she the scholarship?”

“Yes,” almost gasped Jane the irreproachable.  “And to think that I, in any way, should be responsible for bringing her to college!”

“But you are not, Janie dear,” soothed Judith.  “That your father should give this college a scholarship each year is a noble thing, and how can you tell who may win it?  That girl is—­well, a bit raw,” she ground her mouth around the word, “but we have nothing to do with that.  She doesn’t belong among the juniors, and just leave it to little Judy to steer her off.  Don’t go trying any uplift; just cut her dead and watch her wilt.  From the ashes there may arise a nice little green thing, even if it is of the common garden variety of onion.  Now Jane, you have got to do exactly that.  Keep Shirley Duncan on her own grounds.  Shoo her out of junior haunts.”