The Day of the Beast

numerous boxes and drawers strewn in glittering heaps around her.

“Margaret, what on earth are you doing there?” she demanded.

“I'm looking for a little picture Holt Dalrymple gave me when we went to school together,” responded Margaret.

“Aren't you ever going to grow up? You'll be hunting for your dolls next.”

“I will if I like,” said the daughter, in a tone that did not manifest a seraphic mood.

“Don't you feel well?” inquired the mother, solicitously. Margaret was frail and subject to headaches that made her violent.

“Oh, I'm well enough.”

“My dear,” rejoined Mrs. Maynard, changing the topic. “I'm sorry to tell you Daren Lane has lost his standing in Middleville.”

The hum and the honk of a motor-car sounded in the street.

“Poor Daren! What's he done?... Any old day he'll care!”

Mrs. Maynard was looking out of the window. “Here comes a crowd of girls.... Helen Wrapp has a new suit. Well, I'll go down. And after they leave I want a serious talk with you.”

“Not if I see you first!” muttered Margaret, under her breath, as her mother walked out.

Presently, following gay talk and laughter down stairs, a bevy of Margaret's friends entered her boudoir.

“Hello, old socks!” was Helen's greeting. “You look punk.”

“Marg, where's the doll? Your mother tipped us off,” was Elinor's greeting.

“Where's the eats?” was Flossie Dickerson's greeting. She was a bright-eyed girl, with freckles on her smiling face, and the expression of a daring, vivacious and happy spirit—and acknowledged to be the best dancer and most popular girl in Middleville. Her dress, while not to be compared with her friends' costumes in costliness, yet was extreme in the prevailing style.

“Glad to see you, old dear,” was dark-eyed, dark-haired Dorothy Dalrymple's greeting. Her rich color bore no hint of the artificial. She sank down on her knees beside Margaret.

The other girls draped themselves comfortably round the room; and Flossie with a 'Yum Yum' began to dig into a box of candy on Margaret's couch. They all talked at once. “Hear the latest, Marg?”

“Look at Helen's spiffy suit!”

“Oh, money, money, what it will buy!”

“Money'll never buyme , I'll say.”

“Marg, who's been fermentin' round lately? Girls, get wise to the flowers.”

“Hot dog! See Marg blush! That comes from being so pale. What are rouge and lip-stick and powder for but to hide truth from our masculine pursuers?”

“Floss, you haven't blushed for a million years.”

It was Dorothy Dalrymple who silenced the idle badinage.

“Marg, you rummaging in the past?” she cried.

“Yes, and I love it,” replied Margaret. “I haven't looked over this stuff for years. Just to remember the things I did!... Here, Dal, is a picture you once drew of our old teacher, Miss Hill.”

Dorothy, whom the girls nicknamed “Dal,” gazed at the drawing with amaze and regret.

“She was a terror,” continued Margaret. “But Dal, you never had any reason to draw such a horrible picture of her. You were her pet.”

“I wasn't,” declared Dorothy.

“Maybe you never knew Miss Hill adored you, Dal,” interposed Elinor. “She was always holding you up as a paragon. Not in your lessons—for you were a bonehead—but for deportment you were the class!”

“Dal, you were too good for this earththen , let alone these days,” said Margaret.

“Miss Hill,” mused Elinor, gazing at the caricature. “That's not a bad drawing. I remember Miss Hill never had any use for me. Small wonder. She was an honest-to-God teacher. I think she wanted us to be good.... Wonder how she got along with the kids that came after us.”

“I saw Amanda Hill the other day,” spoke up Flossie. “She looked worn out. She was nice to me. I'll bet my shirt she'd like to have us back, bad as we were.... These kids of to-day! My Gawd! they're the limit. They paralyzeme . I thought I was pretty fast. But compared to these youngsters I'm tied to a post. My kid sister Joyce—Rose Clymer—Bessy Bell!... Some kids, believe me. And take it from me, girls, these dimple-kneed chickens are vamping the older boys.”

“They're all stuck on Bessy,” said Helen.

Margaret squealed in delight. “Girls, look here. Valentines! Did you ever?... Look at them.... And what's this?... 'Wonders of Nature—composition by Margaret Maynard.' Heavens! Did I write that? And what's this sear and yellow document?”

A slivery peal of laughter burst from Margaret.

“Dal, here's one of your masterpieces, composed when you were thirteen, and mooney over Daren Lane.”