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"And it's somewhere there in fairyland--

It's where the rainbow ends!"

Marjorie Wilkinson hummed softly to herself as she skipped from place to place, adding the finishing touches to the effect she and her committee had planned.

It was the first Saturday of the regular fall term at Miss Allen's Boarding School. The girls were back again in their old places-all except the seniors of the previous year, who had graduated-and now the sophomores were preparing for the first social event of the year, their reception to the freshmen. Marjorie Wilkinson was chairman.

The clock struck seven, and she stood perfectly still in the center of the floor, viewing the result of their work. The bare, ugly gymnasium had disappeared; in its place was a little winter scene from fairyland. Cedar branches, decked with flakes of artificial snow, and great white snowbanks, completely hid the walls from view. Spread over the floor, except for a space in the middle reserved for dancing, were pine needles and more patches of snow; and everywhere frosty tinsel glimmered in the soft, blue light of the covered electric bulbs.

The girls walked lightly and spoke softly, as if they feared that by some rude noise they might break the magic spell of the scene.

Marjorie, wearing her first real party dress-a pale blue georgette, with a silver sash, and a narrow silver band about her forehead, seemed in perfect harmony with the blue and silver of the scene. But, standing gracefully erect, with one satin-slippered foot extended in front of the other, and her head thrown back as she contemplated the effect, she did not think of the impression she was making. It was not until Lily Andrews, her room-mate, drew her attention to her costume that she thought of herself.

"Your dress is just lovely with the rest of the effect," she said, putting her arm affectionately through Marjorie's.

"Thanks, Lil," replied the other girl carelessly. "Isn't the room wonderful? I think it's the prettiest scene, off the stage, that I ever saw!"

"It's lovely. They certainly can't help liking it, can they?"

"Poor freshies!" sighed Marjorie, with the infinite wisdom of the sophomore. "Remember how green we were?"

"Indeed, I do-and that first reception, when they still had the sorority! Didn't we just think Frances Wright and Ethel Todd were nothing short of goddesses? I wonder whether these freshmen know about our Girl Scout troop, and are as eager to make it as we were the sorority!"

But before Lily could reply, the orchestra, three players who came from the city, entered the room, and Marjorie hurried over to give them the final directions. When she turned around again, Lily had vanished; but near her stood Ruth Henry, her old friend from her home town, who had played the part of jealous rival ever since the girls had been at Miss Allen's.

"Hello, Marj!" She greeted her with the old familiarity; indeed, the girls were good friends now, in spite of all that had happened the previous year. "Your dress is sweet," she added.

"I'm glad you like it, Ruth. Yours is a dream, too!"

Ruth sat down on a chair near-by, and beckoned Marjorie to sit beside her.

"The freshies aren't here yet," she remarked. "We might as well rest. I want to ask you something."

Marjorie complied with her request as far as her physical presence was concerned. But her eyes wandered from one place to another over the room, reviewing the effect, and her mind was drifting from what Ruth was saying. But the latter hardly noticed her preoccupation, so intent was she upon her own interests.

"Listen, Marj!" She reduced her voice to an intimate tone. "Have you thought about our class president?"

"Our president?"

"Yes-not Doris Sands-of course, she is still president; but what I mean is-our next president!"

"No, I haven't," replied Marjorie, absently. "I never gave it a thought. Why?"

"Well, I have; and our class meeting is Monday evening, you know. I think we ought to talk it over, for it's important to get just the right girl."

"I suppose it is," admitted Marjorie, glancing nervously towards the door. "Why do you s'pose they're so late, Ruth?"

"Oh, they'll be along soon," replied Ruth, with annoyance. "It's hardly half-past seven."

But Marjorie could not content herself to sit still any longer.

"Well, it'll be hard to get anybody as good as Doris," she said, rising. "I wish it weren't against the Constitution to elect her over again."

"I hear my name being taken in vain," said a pleasant voice, and the girls looked up to see their pretty class president just behind them.

"Pardon me for interrupting your tete-a-tete, but do you know who has charge of the games?" she asked.

"Lily," replied Marjorie. "But you needn't worry; she's all prepared."

"Good!" exclaimed Doris, glad to dismiss the matter from her mind. Then, "I certainly am crazy to get acquainted with the freshmen. I know most of them by sight now, and I've talked to two or three, but I don't know any of their names."

"Won't it be fun to pick out the Girl Scouts?" remarked Ruth.

"But we don't pick them, Ruth," protested Marjorie; "they pick themselves."

At this moment half a dozen freshmen entered the open door of the gymnasium, and the girls hastened over to welcome them and to make them feel at home. They walked in shyly, hesitating just inside the door, for everything was new and strange to them.

Marjorie was seized with a great longing to seek out all the retiring ones and tell them that she would be their friend. But perhaps some of the freshmen might resent this, and interpret her attitude as condescending. So she tried to content herself with entertaining as many different girls as she could, and remembering as many names as possible.

The first freshman to make any definite impression upon her was Florence Evans, sister of Edith Evans, the senior who had served as Acting Lieutenant of the troop at camp, and who still held that office. It was Florence that introduced herself to Marjorie. Neither bold nor shy, with a little more than the ordinary amount of good looks, she seemed unconsciously to possess the poise of her older sister.

"I have heard so much about you, Marjorie," she said, not hesitating in the least to use the older girl's first name; "Edith told me all about your winning the canoe at camp. And I have been so anxious to meet you!"

"Thanks," replied Marjorie, sincerely flattered that the senior whom she admired so much had seen fit to mention her name at home. "We certainly did have a wonderful time during the summer!"