Chase Josephine - Marjorie Dean, High School Senior

A chorus of hearty affirmatives went up from the six girls who had halted in the middle of the sidewalk to gather about Marjorie.

“She’s a nice girl.” Jerry placed the stamp of her emphatic approval upon the senior who had just left them. “But she is going to have troubles of her own with Mignon. You mustn’t forget that a number of girls besides ourselves were in the locker room and heard Mignon sneering about Veronica. I’m going to begin calling her Veronica. You know what that means. If I come to like her a good deal, I’ve already thought of a nice little pet name for her.”

Jerry’s cheerful grin went the rounds of her friends’ faces. It was a well-known fact among them that the stout girl never addressed a schoolmate as “Miss” unless she entertained a lively dislike for her.

“Everyone of us will stand by Veronica. That means she will have seven staunch supporters at least,” broke in Constance Stevens, her blue eyes purposeful. “That is really all we need care about. Besides, I don’t believe many of the seniors will snub her. If they do, they’ll be very sly about it. The fact that she lives at Miss Archer’s will make a good impression on most of the girls. If a few girls in Sanford High are hateful to her because she is working her way through school, I don’t imagine she will care very much.”

“I think you are right, Connie,” nodded Marjorie. “Veronica told me that she didn’t expect to see much of the social side of high school life. I suppose she feels that she ought to make the most of the chance to study and go to school.”

“How did she happen to come here, I wonder?” mused Jerry. “You said, Marjorie, that she said she’d lived in the state of California. I suppose she must have stayed with Miss Archer’s relatives and worked her way through the first three years of high school while she lived with them.”

“I suppose so,” agreed Marjorie. As she answered Jerry it suddenly flashed across her that during their talk Veronica had, after all, revealed very little about herself. Her attitude had been toward concealment rather than revelation.

“She’ll probably tell us more about herself when we get better acquainted with her,” suggested gentle Irma.

“If she doesn’t, then Jerry will have to take the trail and find out,” teased Muriel Harding.

“I can – ” Jerry stopped speaking as her glance met Marjorie’s. In the latter’s brown eyes lurked a mute protest against Muriel’s proposal. No one read it there except shrewd Jerry. The abrupt halt in her speech signified her respect for it.

“You can do what?” asked Harriet Delaney, laughing.

“I can mind my own business,” evaded Jerry with a broad smile at Muriel which robbed her brusque comment of any implied rebuke. “Let Veronica Browning give out her own information. If I’m going to trail anyone, I choose to shadow Mignon and see that she doesn’t make things hard for this new girl.”

“Let us all solemnly agree to stand by her,” proposed Marjorie impulsively. “By that I don’t mean that we are to forget our promise to Mignon’s father. We must try somehow to help them both.”

After her chums had left her at her own gate, she wondered rather soberly as she went slowly up the walk to the house, how the difficult measure she had so strongly advocated could be carried out.

When Marjorie returned to school that afternoon, her eyes widened in startled surprise as they became riveted on a square white envelope on her desk addressed to herself. For an instant her heart sank. Then she laughed softly, under her breath, as she recalled that although the script was unmistakably that of the Observer, she now had no need to dread it. The Observer had been laid to rest on a certain snowy afternoon of last winter. This note was from Lucy Warner, her friend.

Opening it, a quick light of pleasure dawned in her face as she read:

“Dear Marjorie:

“How can I ever thank you enough for what you have done for me? Miss Archer sent for me to come to her office this morning and, of course, you know why. I was so surprised and delighted. To be her secretary is a great honor, I think. Then, too, the salary, which is ten dollars a week, will help mother and me so much. I have almost enough credits now to graduate, for I have always carried six studies and taken the special reading courses, too. Now I am going to take only two studies each term. That will give me almost all my time free for secretarial work. I am going to rent a typewriting machine and study stenography by myself, so I shall soon be ready to do Miss Archer’s work in creditable fashion.

“Although I’ve never said a word to anyone about it, I have always wished for the position I now have. One reason, of course, is the salary; the other the experience. When school closes I can take an office position in Sanford, and by working hard save a little money toward some day going to college. It will take a long time, but I am determined to do it. If I can earn enough money to pay my tuition fees, then perhaps I can obtain secretarial work in whatever college I decide to go to. I only wish I had a chance to try for a scholarship. Doesn’t it seem strange that Sanford High School doesn’t offer at least one? Perhaps if it did, I could not win it, so there is no use in sighing over it.

“I hope you won’t be bored over this long letter. I know it has nothing in it but my own affairs, but, somehow, since that winter day when you forgave me for having been the hateful Observer I feel very near to you, and I wish you to know my ambitions for the future. You are so splendid and honorable that I know I can freely trust you with my confidence. Mother and I would be very pleased to have you come home from school with me some evening soon and take supper with us.

Marjorie experienced a delightful glow of satisfaction as she finished the letter. How glad she was that Lucy and she now understood each other so fully, and what a clever girl Lucy was. Marjorie was lost in admiration of the quiet little senior’s brilliancy as a student. She wished she could help make Lucy’s dream of going to college come true as soon as her high school days were over. She knew that Lucy was too proud and sensitive to accept from anyone the money to continue her education. Yet Marjorie determined then that if ever she could become the means of helping to realize the other girl’s ambition, she would be happy.

A tender little smile lingered on her lips as she returned the letter to its envelope and tucked it inside her blouse. Very reluctantly she reached for her Cicero and was soon lost in preparing for her next hour’s recitation. Marjorie had not been able to arrange her senior program so as to have the coveted last hour in the afternoon for study. In the morning Advanced English and French Prose and Poetry took up the first two periods, leaving her the last one free. After luncheon the first afternoon period was now devoted to study. During the next she recited in Cicero and the third and last period was given over to a recitation in Greek and Roman History. As she had already gained the required amount of credits in mathematics, she was satisfied to forego trigonometry. She was not fond of mathematics and had decided not to burden her senior year with the further study of them. Once in college she knew she would have her fill of trigonometry.

“I’ve something to report, Captain,” was her gay sally as, school over for the day, she tripped into the living room. “I’ve the dearest letter from Lucy Warner. I’m going to sit right down and read it to you. I found it waiting for me on my desk when I went back to school this afternoon. For just a minute it made me feel queerly. You can understand why. But it was very different from – well, you know.” Marjorie unpinned her pretty white hemp hat and hastily depositing it on the library table, plumped down on the floor at her mother’s knee. Dignified senior though she had now become, she had not outgrown her love for that lowly but most confidential resting place.