ON the evening of October 2d, the Social Committee of the Y. W. C. A. entertained the Faculty and students in the gymnasium. It was a pleasant mingling of the new and the old students. The room was lighted with Japanese lanterns and artistically decorated with screens, rugs, sofa pillows and potted plants. In the corners of the room were three dimly-lighted booths behind which sat dark-haired gypsies, who revealed to those desiring information, most wonderful mysteries as to the future. Music was furnished by Miss Lasley at the piano and Miss Moring at the graphophone. Delightful refreshments, consisting of cream and cake, were served, after which the guests departed, having spent a most pleasant evening with the Social Committee.

On the afternoon of October 7th, Mr. James Young came out to the College and gave a very interesting lecture on Hamlet. The same evening the Seniors and Juniors were allowed to attend the play, “Brown of Harvard.” in which Mr. Young took the leading part. Since then the seniors have been singing, “When Love is Young in Springtime,” to their freshman friends; so we know they still remember Mr. Young.

On October 14th we had a holiday to take part in the exercises of Educational Day of the Greensboro Centennial Week. The pupils of the schools and colleges of Guilford County gathered upon the campus of Greensboro Female College. Shortly after ten o'clock the educational parade began to march from here, passing along West Market Street to Court Square, thence down South Elm to Washington, thence along East Washington and Forbis Streets to the auditorium. It is said by those who saw this procession of more than seven thousand girls and boys that they had never witnessed a more inspiring spectacle anywhere. The line of march was led by the students of Greensboro Female College, wearing white dresses and white hats with light green bands; next came the students of the State Normal College dressed in pure white and wearing tiny North Carolina flags: these were followed by the graded and public schools of Guilford County. At the auditorium Dr. George Winston, the centennial orator, delivered a most magnificent address.

On October 14th we were made happy by the announcement that on Wednesday we would be allowed to go to the Fair. With flying colors we reached the Fair grounds about noon. For the rest of the day we threw “come back” balls and confetti, rode on the merry-go-round and Ferris wheel, listened with thrilling hearts to the revealing of the mysteries of the future by the fortune-teller, and admired the exhibits to our hearts' content. Many are lamenting the fact that “Fair Day” does not come oftener.

On Tuesday night. October 15th, from eight to ten o'clock, our Faculty and students were at home to their Greensboro friends and their friends from abroad. The Alain Building, Student's Building, Library and the new McIver Memorial Building were thrown open to the guests. The main receiving party was stationed in the parlor, and along the halls were groups of receivers, who ushered the guests into the dining-room, where light refreshments were served. During the reception Professor Brockmann's College Orchestra rendered some very beautiful selections, which added to the joy of the occasion.

On the evening of October 16th, Mr. Foust took the Seniors and Marshals on a delightful car ride to see the illuminations of the city. During the ride, songs of such an irresistible nature were sung that all joined in, whether they could carry the time or not. Every one enjoyed the ride immensely and many thanks are due to Mr. Foust for a very pleasant evening.

The students and friends of the College were delightfully entertained on the evening of November 23d, in the College auditorium, with an interpretation of “Richard III,” rendered most ably by the noted dean of the Emerson School of Oratory, Henry Lawrence Southwick.

Mr. Matheson entertained the Seniors in the Curry Building on the evening of November 25th. They were received in the teachers' reading room by Mr. Matheson and Misses Michaux, Fitzgerald and Nash. After a few minutes of pleasant conversation, they were led into Mr. Matheson's room, which was tastefully decorated in blue and white, the class colors. Here a delightful repast was served them, consisting of quail on toast, beaten biscuits, pickles, celery, coffee, cream and cake. Mr. Matheson gave a toast of humor and wit to the Class. Afterwards chafing dishes were brought in and those skilled in the art of candy making, made fudge, while others played and sang; all had a jolly good time The guests departed at ten, having spent a very pleasant evening with the Training School Faculty.

The presentation of “Midsummer Night's Dream” by the Cornelian Literary Society in the college auditorium to a large crowd of Greensboro people Friday evening, December 4th, was the most delightful and thoroughly enjoyable entertainment that has been given at our College for many years. Mendelssohn's music, composed especially for “Midsummer Night's Dream,” was beautifully rendered by the College Orchestra. Altogether the entertainment was thoroughly delightful and one of which the College is proud. The hard-handed and thick-skulled men of Athens deserve special mention for their success as actors. Mary Van Poole, in the character of Nick Bottom, the weaver, was the hit of the evening and kept the audience in a constant uproar.

ON the evening of October 29th, the Adelphians held their Initiation exercises for the year 1908 in their Society Hall. Long before the great event, strange and mysterious rumors had reached the ears of the prospective members. At the dreaded time when the massive doors opened to receive them, they approached the unknown realm in trembling awe and expectation.

The social part of the evening's program consisted of a banquet given in the college dining hall. The decorations were strictly Adelphian—red and gold chrysanthemums adorned the tables, which were arranged in the shape of the Adelphian pin, while a stately bank of graceful palms and ferns marked the center of the room. At each plate was the souvenir of the occasion, a green leather card-case with the Adelphian pin stamped on it. Between the courses, music was furnished by Brockmann's Orchestra.

After the banquet, all eyes turned toward the rustic stage in the rear of the room. There, under the shade of cool pines, beneath the peaceful light of an imaginary moon, the following scenes from the Merchant of Venice were presented: SCENE, I—Belmont—Belmont, Portia's home.SCENE II—A street in Venice.SCENE. III— Belmont.Scene IV—A terrace at Belmont.

The program was well carried out and proved very enjoyable. Lancelot Gobbo kept the audience laughing by his antics. Herr Roy rendered Schubert's Serenade on his violin during the moonlight scene and as the audience listened to this artist, they agreed with Shakespeare when he said:

THE Sixteenth Annual Initiation of the Cornelian Literary Society took place on the evening of October 31st, 1908. After one hundred and forty-five girls had been given a ride on the Cornelian goat, and had been carried by him into the mystic realms of the Unknown, as new Cornelians, they were royally entertained at a banquet given in their honor by the old members of the Society.

The scene of the banquet was the dining hall of the College, but a dining hall greatly changed from its ordinary appearance. It had been decorated with palms, ferns and chrysanthemums, and the tables were not in their usual orderly rows, but were arranged in the form of a Maltese Cross. A bank of palms and potted plants formed the center of the cross, and trailing smilax entwined the candelabra on the tables.

Covers were spread for three hundred and sixty guests, including the Faculty, visiting Adelphians, and former Cornelians. The menu cards in pale blue and gold, were artistically decorated with an embossed design of the Society pin, and the souvenirs were silver hat pins engraved with the monogram C. L. S.

During the four-course dinner, music was furnished by Brockmann's Orchestra, and between the courses toasts were given. Miss Elizabeth Robinson, the toast mistress of the evening, announced the toasts as follows: To the New Members . . . . . Miss Nannie McArnResponse . . . . . Miss Kathleen LongTo the Visitors . . . . . Miss Annie MartinResponse . . . . . Mrs. Moulton AveryTo the Faculty . . . . . Miss Jessie ErnhardtResponse . . . . . Miss Viola BoddieTo the Adelphians . . . . . Miss Belle AndrewsResponse . . . . . Miss Hal MorrisonTo the Old Cornelians . . . . . Miss Edith LathamResponse . . . . . Miss Eleanor ElliotTo the College . . . . . Miss Margaret B. CobbResponse . . . . . President J. I. Foust

THE first public performance of the Sophomore Company was given at the Veilchen Theater, otherwise the dining-room of the Spencer Building, on February 6th. 1909, in honor of the Freshman Class. The “Comedy in Five Acts” as well as the theater, had caused much speculation among the audience to be, some thinking that the entertainment would consist of a visit to the Lyric. It is to be hoped that they were agreeably disappointed.

The theater was divided into two parts by an improvised wall, adorned with vines, on which, strange to say, violet's blossomed in great profusion, in honor of their patrons, the Freshmen. The audience was received in the first division of the theater, which was furnished as a sitting room, and there heard the first two acts, together with selections by the College Orchestra during the intermissions. The last three acts were given in the dining salon, which was decorated in the Freshman colors with violets, real and otherwise, potted plants, and souvenir 1912 pennants. The revealers of self, as “others see us,” were concealed in walnut shells that served as place cards, and contained some personal and mirth provoking limerick for each guest. The refreshments carried out as far as possible the lavender and white scheme, and were served by Sophomores attired in lavender and white. Act five was, in reality, “As You Like It,” the guests for the most part spending it in laughing over some particularly good limerick, and in the novel experience of gathering violets from vines.

The program was announced by the stage manager, as follows: ACT I—“Music hath charms.”SCENE I—Orchestra selection.SCENE II—Quartette, “Come and search for Violets.”SCENE III—Piano solo.SCENE IV—Piano solo.ACT II— “And thereby hangs a tale.”(A recitation—“Sally Ann's Experience.”)ACT III—“O wad some power the giftie gie us, To see oursel's as ithers see us.”ACT IV—“Eat, drink, and be merry.”ACT V—“As you like it.”

THE CLASS OF 1910 requests the honor of the presence of the of 1909 for the evening of February 8th.” So ran the invitation to the Seniors and a number of the Faculty. Promptly at the appointed hour, the guests were assembled in the reception hall of the students' building. As yet they knew not what fate awaited them but they were not kept in suspense long for they were soon led to the car line. When the cars stopped at the Opera House, there was not a doubt in the minds of any of them but that they were to see “The Man of the Hour.”

After the play they were brought back to the main building. Here they were conducted into one of the recitation rooms which had been transformed by means of Japanese decorations into “a thing of beauty.” The tables, arranged in an open square and lighted with many candles, were decorated with smilax.

A piece of Japanese pottery was at each place as a souvenir. After a simple course supper, Miss Elizabeth Robinson, the president of the Junior Class, gave the following appropriate toast to the Seniors:

“Before leaving, the Class of 1910 wishes to offer a toast to that Class which like the Father of our Country stands first in all things, especially in the hearts of the Juniors.”

“Then here's to the Seniors! May good luck follow them wherever they may go. May health, harmony, and happiness attend them in every state of life, especially the married life.”

IT was the night before Thanksgiving. The stillness which usually settles over the campus at dusk had already fallen. A large crowd had assembled near the library, breathlessly awaiting the coming of the Juniors. From the distance sounded the familiar notes of Heidelburg, sung by clear girlish voices. Then winding in and out, in a long sinuous line, came slowly a procession of Japanese maidens, each bearing on her shoulder a Japanese lantern. The lawn between the library and the main building was lighted with the soft light of Japanese lanterns. Into this circle of light the maidens wended their way. After forming several graceful figures here they gathered around the McIver Oak to celebrate its second birthday. These maidens of the “Land of the Rising Sun” had met here two years before this night, and planted the sturdy little sapling. One year ago, they had returned to celebrate its birthday. And now on this, its second birthday, they gathered once more to show their interest and affection. Then, as they came, so they went, singing, and winding their way, until they faded in the distance.

IT was the middle of September, and Helen Miller was busy with her preparations for going off to school. Pretty garments, pictures, toilet articles, and all the dainty, schoolgirl accessories were scattered about the room. Helen stood by the window and sighed as she thought of leaving home and living, for the first time, in a boarding school. She heard a light step behind her and turning, saw her aunt Edith, a sweet, patient little woman, whose calm eyes were undimmed, but whose hair was whitened by time.

“Oh, Aunt Edith,” cried Helen, “I am so glad to see you! I was lonesome and almost ready to cry.”

“I have come for a farewell chat, dear,” said the bright old lady.

Then she led the way to a big rocking chair, while Helen curled up on a low stool and laid her head on her aunt's lap.

“As I think of the new problems with which you will have to deal,” began Aunt Edith, “I am reminded of an event in my own school life. This incident, which occurred in the latter part of my freshman year, had a deep influence on my succeeding stay in college, and left a lasting impression on my life. I am going to tell you this much of my history and urge you to say nothing which could in any way injure the feelings of another.

“The school which I attended was a fashionable boarding school of that day. Much emphasis was laid on the social development of the students, and everything was arranged with a view to their enjoyment as well as their intellectual improvement. I was very pleasantly situated. A bright, lively girl from Kentucky shared my rooms. We loved each other dearly, although we were in some respects very different. Her name was Celia Williams, and I often familiarly called her.‘Cecly.’ Instead of one room, we had two small apartments opening into each other. One of these we used as a bedroom; the other as a sitting room and study.

“Aside from the social features of the school, one of the most important things was the work of the two literary societies. They were not, as the modern secret sorority organizations to which only a chosen few could belong, but were open to all, and had no secrets. The work of these societies attained a high degree of literary merit, partly through the spirit of rivalry existing between the two, and partly from the fact that the faculty and student body, and sometimes the public generally, were allowed to attend the literary exercises. Naturally, the committee which arranged the programs had arduous duties, and was considered very important. This committee in each society consisted of three members. One girl from each society was nominated by her class, near the close of her Freshman year. The society usually accepted the nomination of the class, and the members held their places three years. It was considered a high tribute to one's literary ability to be chosen to serve on this committee.

“All during our first years we were thinking of the coming election. Each girl taxed her skill in the use of her language, and studied literature with a zeal that is rarely equaled. Members of the higher classes were not slow to suggest girls, who, in their opinion, could be trusted with the reputation of her society. Most of these suggestions pointed to my roommate as the one most likely to receive the nomination. And, indeed, no one in the class was better qualified to hold the position. She was a girl of unusual talent, and the field in which she was especially gifted was English. She also had a remarkable capacity for knowing girls, and giving to each the work best suited to her ability.

“Besides all these qualities, she was very popular. She had been elected president of her own class by a large majority, and her friendship was sought by all. She was exceedingly entertaining and pleasant to every one, but to me she gave her closest friendship, her most entire confidence. We lived together as dear sisters. She was gay, beautiful, popular; I was less attractive, but more studious. We were happy, but my great sensitiveness would not allow these pleasant relations to go on undisturbed.

“It was just before the spring election. Celia had been busy for days, walking, singing, and dancing with girls for whom she had formerly shown little regard. She had given many car rides and afternoon teas. I had been unwell for some time, and had kept very closely in my room when not on recitation. But I heard that Celia would doubtless accomplish her purpose. I was surprised that she should work to secure her own nomination, and resented her apparent forgetfulness of me. I confess that I, too, was ambitious, and while I would scorn to mention the fact to any one, I secretly desired the position on the honored committee.

IT has not been very long since the wooded sections of eastern North Carolina were infested with wolves, bears, and panthers. Our grandmothers well remember the times when the farmers' pigs and sheep were stolen by bears and wolves. The howling of a pack of wolves was nothing unusual at night. Panthers were often bold enough to creep along the “fence locks” in the day time.

It was a chilly night in October, 1855. Calvin Bond and Meta Hartsfield started on their way to a party at a neighbor's a few miles away. All of the horses had been taken by Calvin's older brothers; so only the ox and the cart were left for Calvin and Meta. But, nevertheless, they thought it fine fun to drive the ox. Calvin took his violin, a present from his grandfather, and they both started, full of joy in the anticipated pleasure of the party. As they slowly rode along, chatting gaily, they came to an old, open field. They were urging the ox to go faster over the level surface of the field, when suddenly they were startled by the howling of wolves. They drove faster. But the howling sounded nearer and nearer every minute. They knew by the continued howling that the wolves were hungry. Then, for the first time, Calvin remembered that he had forgotten to bring a weapon of any kind, save the large pocket knife, which he always carried. But what could he do with that to check the attack of, perhaps, twenty wolves? It was useless to think of reaching a place of safety with only an ox to carry them. Suddenly a thought came to Calvin. They would seek refuge in a little, deserted log cabin. near the edge of the field. They left the cart and hurried into the cabin. By using an old block, which had been left inside, they climbed to the low log rafters.

By this time the wolves were upon them. There were more than a dozen in the pack. They scrambled and ran wildly around the little room, until they scented the spot, where the pursued sat, almost breathless with terror. The wolves began yelping and howling more wildly than ever, as they jumped up and down, trying to reach the two above them. All at once the leader of the pack jumped upon the block. It now seemed to Calvin and Meta that no earthly help was near. Both were silently praying that God would spare their lives. What could they do? All at once Calvin realized that he was clenching his violin in his hands. “Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast,” came to him like a flash. He did not stop to wonder if there were more poetry than truth in the verse. He madly drew the bow across the strings of his little violin. All the music in his soul was now put into his effort to play. The music worked like magic. The yelping ceased; the wolves became quiet. By a streak of moonlight, coming in through a crevice in the wall, they saw the red, gleaming eyes of the wolves follow his hand, as it drew the bow across the strings. He played, until his muscles grew tense and his arm was almost paralyzed. He stopped to rest. The wolves now became more fierce than before. The snarling growling, howling, and yelping was maddening. The music could not be stopped. Meta began to sing in her high, clear tones. Again the wolves were silenced, but not so completely as by the music of the violin. So by turns, the playing and singing continued.

Meanwhile the guests at the party had returned to their homes, wondering why Calvin and Meta had not gone to the party. When Calvin's brothers and sisters reached home, they found the ox and cart standing at the gate of the barn yard. They became alarmed, when they learned that Calvin and Meta had not been seen by those who remained at home. A party, armed with various weapons, started out to search for them. About two o'clock in the morning the party heard the faint sound of a violin in the distance. They were so surprised that they went in the direction of the sound. They were almost afraid to enter the cabin, when they reached it. It seemed so strange to hear music in a deserted house in the middle of the night. On reaching the door and looking in, they were very much surprised to see a pack of wolves in the middle of the floor, listening to music from above. Their surprise was much greater, when they saw Calvin and Meta, sitting on the rafters, and entertaining wolves with their music.

Today the granddaughter of Calvin Bond and Meta Hartsfield keeps a violin, wrapped in a silken scarf, in an old cedar chest. They are both kept as sacred relics, because the violin saved the lives of her grandparents, and the scarf was worn by her grandmother on the night of the adventure with the wolves.

ROBERT D. O'CONNOR, attorney at law, leaned back in his chair, gazed first at the ceiling, then around at the unplastered walls of his narrow, dingy office, and then at the ceiling again. His face wore an expression of deep anxiety, of almost utter hopelessness. He arose presently from his chair, walked about the room a few minutes, and paused in front of the one window, and looked out. It was a gusty March afternoon and the wind drove a cloud of dust down the street.

Turning to his chair again, he sat down with a great sigh, and reflected. Tomorrow would be his wedding anniversary—his and Lucile's. Tomorrow they would have been married ten years. Heretofore, they had celebrated each year the glad event in some quiet, happy way. But as the years passed, the celebration had grown simpler and less expensive. He remembered that when they were married five years, he had sent her a bunch of American Beauties, and on his card he had written these words : “My sweetheart five years ago; my sweetheart today.” She was still his sweetheart, but—

O'Connor reached for his pocket-book, opened it, and shook its contents out on his desk. Before him lay a half-dollar, a much-worn dime, and three pennies—that was all. He took out his bankbook. The account was balanced—nothing to his credit.

“Married ten years tomorrow,” mused O'Conner, “been a licensed lawyer ten years, and it has come to this.”

O'Connor recalled the fact that his mother used to say to him that if a man had not started on the road to success five years after his wedding day, his situation was serious; and if he had not made a success of life in ten years, he would never reach his goal. There was only one more day of grace!

With another sigh, O'Connor began to open the letters on his desk. “State merits, bills, duns,” he groaned, “there has been nothing else for months.” The first envelope contained a grocer's bill, and across the bottom of the sheet were these words: “Unless you settle this account at once, no further credit will be extended.” A clothing house reminded him that if a check were not received within the next ten days, his account would be placed in the hands of an attorney. Another firm even more urgent, stated that a representative would call upon him the next day, and that further refusal of payment would be considered sufficient grounds for legal action. These were a few of many similar claims.

He had borrowed from his friends, too, and failed to repay, until they shunned him.

And Lucile! The thought of her almost maddened him. She was always patient and encouraging; but he had never forgotten the agony in her face when a few years ago they mortgaged their little home. At the thought of this, he put his hand to his forehead. The mortgage! Opening a drawer in his desk, he drew out some papers. The interest and the principal would be due in just twenty days! Ruin could not be far off.

The beginning of O'Connor's career had been full of promise. He remembered the time when he occupied a large front office in this building, instead of the small Unfinished room, then used for the janitor's supplies. But he had made unwise investments, and lost. He tried to recover his losses, but was unsuccessful again. Sickness, the result of anxiety, followed, and one by one, through the years, his clients deserted him. His acquaintances spoke of him as a man of splendid ability, who had met with hard luck. They were right.

O'Connor continued to think of his wife. If she had only chosen Cardwell, how different her life would have been! The two men had been friends, both had loved Lucile, and their rivalry was of a friendly sort. When she made her Choice, Cardwell went away, applied himself to business, and succeeded. “Oh if Lucile had only chosen Cardwell!” he said.

He was growing desperate. He walked out of his office, and paced the long hall of the building. On the right, the firm of Ward&Ward, the most prominent lawyers in Wallburg, occupied a magnificent suite of rooms. He knew that both men were out of the city. The janitor, in putting the rooms in order, had carelessly left the door of the private office open.

O'Connor paused, and looked in. It was after five, and the stenographer had gone home. He stood there, impressed with the elegance of the furnishings of the room, and with the unmistakable air of prosperity that pervaded it. The next minute he was standing again in his own bare office, looking out through the dusty window-panes.

He gave an exclamation of surprise, and looked again. Whom did he see crossing the street? Who, but Norman Cardwell, and he was walking rapidly toward the building. O'Connor was almost stunned. “Cardwell must be coming to see me,” he thought, “and to find me in this hole! I can not allow that. I will leave! But, no!”—he clutched at the thought as a dying man clutches at a straw—“perhaps Cardwell's visit for something else besides the renewal of our old friendship. Can it be possible?” He looked about him in desperation. “If Cardwell finds me in a place like this—what shall I do?” And then, oh, blessed inspiration! the thought of the open door and of the private office of Ward&Ward darted into his mind. “Why can I not carry Cardwell in there?” he said. “Cardwell is a stranger in the city. He will never know.” O'Connor knew it would he a bold stroke, a dangerous stroke, but he was in no mood to think of consequences. He thought only of his present need, and the possibility of relief. Hurrying up the long hall he glanced into the office again. There was nothing about it to indicate who the real occupants were. This was the private office of the firm, and there was no lettering on either the door or the windows.

Only a few minutes had elapsed since O'Connor first saw Cardwell crossing the street, but it seemed an hour. Hearing footsteps coming up the stairs, he seized his hat and coat, as if he were going out, and met Cardwell just as he appeared at the head of the stairs. There was an expression of surprise and pleasure on the part of both. O'Connor insisted upon taking him up to his office. Throwing open the door of Messrs. Ward&Wards private office, he ushered his visitor in.

Cardwell looked about him somewhat surprised. He had not expected to see such evidences of prosperity. “Well, how has life gone with you during these years, O'Connor?” he asked.

“These are strenuous times, old man,” replied O'Connor. “When a man has brains and will work, he usually finds the world a busy place.

Cardwell nodded. Evidently O'Connor was a busy man. Through an open door which led into another of the offices, he saw the typewriter on the desk “O'Connor must be getting on in the world if he can employ a stenographer,” he thought.

Following the gaze of his visitor. O'Connor was saying: “I had just started out as you came in. My stenographer went home at five. I have never believed in long hours. If you require only reasonable hours and pay an employe well, the results will usually be more satisfactory. Seventy-five dollars is none too much, especially when the cases in court have to be reported.”

O'Connor watched his visitor with an anxious heart. The absurdness, as well as the dishonesty of the situation began to dawn upon him. “Suppose Cardwell should be in town for several days and should wish to come to see me again!” he was saying to himself. “But because of Lucile I must make an impression, I must keep up appearances.”

MRS. BELL was a very energetic, keen-witted woman, who succeeded where a hundred others would have failed. Her husband, like most of the other men of the neighborhood, had joined the Patriot Army and marched away to fight the redcoats. Thus the wife, with four small children and two faithful negroes, Uncle Ben and Aunt Betsey, was left to manage the little farm. For a while, everything had gone very well: the seat of war was far away in the North, and after the excitement of Lexington had died away, the people of the country districts in central Carolina had to a great extent resumed the “even tenor of their way.” But later, the war had been transferred to the South, and the raids of the Tory bands had begun. The hatred between Whig and Tory had so increased from day to day that the farm of no patriot was safe from attack.

All the neighbors were in constant dread of the Tories, and Mrs. Bell's two slaves were often very much frightened, especially when they heard of a barn-burning, robbery, or other depredation; but she herself went about her daily tasks as usual, and did not seem in the least apprehensive of trouble.

Late one afternoon, Mrs. Bell was engaged in preparing some of the coarse food she had for the evening meal, Aunt Betsey was milking, and Uncle Ben doing chores. Suddenly horses' feet were heard along the road, and the next moment Uncle Ben rushed into the house yelling, 'O Missey, dey's come; dey's come!” “Who have come?” coolly inquired Mrs. Bell. Uncle Ben was so frightened he could not answer intelligibly; but Aunt Betsey, bursting wildly in after him, managed to scream, “De Tories! de Tories! dey'll murder us.”

In a few minutes, seven or eight men rode tip to the front gate, dismounted, hitched their horses, marched up to the house and into the kitchen without waiting for an invitation. The leader greeted Mrs. Bell with, “Now my good dame, we want a good hot supper, and that quick. Give us a plenty of broiled chicken, ham, and such other viands as you, of course, have in store.” “If you get broiled chicken, you will have to call at some farm-house from which you have not already stolen all the chickens,” retorted Mrs. Bell. The men laughed loudly at this and began to search the house for something they might plunder and carry away. For sometime, they found nothing of sufficient value to tempt them, though they went all through the house scattering bed-clothing, over-turning furniture, and making the house look as if a cyclone had swept through it.

As two of the men were passing through the narrow hall, they spied a trap door in the center of the floor, which was immediately pried up. One of the men then descended into the cellar and began to make investigations. The only thing found which he cared to take was a bundle of woolen yarn, which Mrs. Bell had spun and hung in a corner. This the fellow seized, and with it in his hand, started up the step-ladder. By this time, Mrs. Bell had discovered what was going on, and quietly walked into the hall. She had in her hand a long wooden paddle with which she had been stirring a kettle of Indian meal mush. Advancing to the opening in the floor, and looking at the man coming up the ladder, she coolly remarked, “That thread is to make clothing for my children, and you shall not come out of there with it.” All the men jeered, and the fellow carrying the yarn advanced up the ladder. Mrs. Bell said no more but reached down and struck the man on the side of the face with the paddle all smeared with the boiling-hot mush. Now, hot mush is a terrible thing to encounter; and for a moment, the man drew back. But those on the floor laughed and called him a coward. Again, he started up the ladder; and again, the brave woman struck him with the hot mush paddle. This was repeated several times, until finally the man dropped the yarn vowing vengeance on the woman. “You will not hurt me,” she said fearlessly. When the angry fellow reached the floor, he would have endeavored to execute his threats, had not the Tory leader declared that the woman had entertained him so well she should not be punished.

“Come,” said the leader, looking at the fellow who had encountered Mrs. Bell's paddle and was still wiping mush from his face, “I know you have had enough here; we will ride on.” The whole party then mounted their horses and rode away, not even attempting to drive away one of the cows standing in the lot just across the road.

THERE was plainly something wrong at Mrs. Forest's boarding school. Groups of girls were scattered here and there over the campus talking excitedly and earnestly. Fay Harrell, a tall, sharp-eyed, nervous looking girl, was the center of one of these groups. Her voice could be heard above all the others uttering loud denunciations against some person. The girls around her were bending eagerly towards her, anxious to catch every word that fell from her lips. Strange to say, there was only one girl in the whole school who was not in either one or the other of these groups, and that was Christine Vaughn. On this afternoon, she had been in the library reading, and as she came down the steps, towards the group of girls with Fay as the center, the talking ended in a confused murmur, the girls looked at each other significantly, and several noses were tilted in the air. Christine spoke to them pleasantly, but somehow there was no response, and she passed on towards her room with a pained, wondering look on her usually bright face. Before she was completely out of hearing distance she heard Fay say, “The little huzzy! She thinks we haven't found it out, but we'll soon show her.”

But why all this excitement in this usually quiet school? It was just two months since the girls had gathered there to begin another year's work. Among the new girls that had entered was Christine Vaughn, a quiet, reserved, studious girl from a small town in the eastern part of the State. For the very reason that she was so quiet and reserved, the other girls had paid little attention to her. But she soon showed them that she was clever and could surpass any of them in their studies. Fay was amazed at this, for up to this time had easily been the acknowledged leader and it hurt her pride to see this little slip of a girl forging ahead of her. Her black eyes would flash when she thought of it, but what could she do? Try as she would, Christine's grades were always a point or two higher than her own. She sat up late at night, becoming hollow-eyed and nervous trying to keep her old place as leader. She grimly said that she had rather never sleep any at all than that the little golden-haired girl should make the better grade.

About a week before the opening of our story, Fay began to miss various articles from her room. At first, it was only a Latin exercise that she had prepared to hand in, but every night since, something more valuable had disappeared.

Trinkets and jewels were not the only things taken, for even money had been missed. Loud complaints were made, but still the thefts went on. Mrs. Forest told the girls to keep a sharp lookout and she herself made a thorough investigation of the matter, but could find out nothing. What could have become of the jewels and money? The strange part was that nothing was ever taken from any girl but Fay. She became more and more nervous as she missed one piece of jewelry and then another. When questioned by Mrs. Forest as to whether she ever heard anything out of the ordinary at night she replied.

“Nothing, although I sleep very little.”

On the afternoon before, Fay went to her room unexpectedly and met Christine just as she was coming out with a book which she had borrowed. There had been no one in the room at the time when Christine went in, but, as the girls always borrowed a book when needed, it was perfectly natural for her to do so. Nevertheless, Fay looked at her suspiciously, for somehow Christine was always so reserved and queer, she wondered if she didn't have something to do with the disappearance of the different things. On the very next morning Fay missed a valuable ring. Then indeed she was certain that Christine had taken it, for hadn't she been seen alone in the room the day before? Fay took a grim satisfaction in thinking that she would now be able to humiliate her rival. She told several of her special friends of her suspicion and soon the news had spread like wildfire among the girls. Some stoutly defended Christine, but most of them were with Fay. It was not that they especially disliked the quiet girl, but it was so easy to go with the crowd instead of offering any objection. This was the state of affairs on the afternoon on which we saw Christine pass the group of girls on the campus.

As Christine passed out of sight, Fay turned to the girls around her and said:

“I'm going to report this to Mrs. Forest and ask her to search every room in the dormitory. I imagine she will find out that her favorite pupil is not quite so innocent as she appears to be.”

With that remark, she went at once to Mrs. Forest and told her what she wished to have done. Mrs. Forest, a motherly, sweet-faced woman, was greatly surprised at the request, but readily consented to undertake the search and asked Fay to assist her. There was perhaps half a dozen rooms to be gone through before Christine's was reached, but nothing unusal was found in any of them. As they approached Christine's door a little murmur of excitement was heard among the girls who had gathered in the hall. There was a hard, set look on Fay's face. “Now,” she thought, “we'll see who comes out ahead.” Mrs. Forest knocked at the door and in response to the soft “come in,” she and Fay went into the room. Christine was sitting by the open window in her dainty room dreamily looking at the sun as it was setting in the west, wondering why the girls had treated her so coldly on that day.

“Surely,” thought Mrs. Forest, “there is no need to search this room, for Christine is as innocent as any child.”

In answer to the surprised look which Christine gave her as she went in she said:

“Vaughn, I suppose you know that we are searching all the rooms in the dormitory in order to see if we can possibly find any traces of the articles that have been stolen.”

Christine jumped up at once and said with a bright smile:

“Of course, Mrs. Forest, you are perfectly welcome to search my room.”

She herself helped them to go through everything, but still there was nothing found. Fay was surprised, for she had fully expected to prove Christine guilty. Finally she said:

“Mrs. Forest, there is a small trunk in the closet. That hasn't been searched yet.”

“I hardly think it is necessary to search further, but you can look through and satisfy yourself.”

Given this permission, Fay dropped down on her knees before the trunk which Christine had pulled out of the closet and opened for her. She began the search, taking out the articles one by one, until she reached the bottom, when there, with the ring on top, lay all the things that had been stolen.

Christine uttered a cry of dismay and astonishment as she looked at the array that Fay deliberately spread out before her. Who could have put those things, into her trunk? She looked at Fay, but her face was hard and cold, and turning to Mrs. Forest for sympathy, she said with a little moan:

“Oh, surely, dear Mrs. Forest, you don't believe that I did that? I don't understand how those things could possibly have gotten into my trunk. I know I have never touched them.”

“How else could they have been put in there? Such things do not usually walk around themselves,” was the sharp, quick reply of Fay.

As for Mrs. Forest, she was standing looking at Christine, too much surprised and pained to say anything. She could not believe that the girl before her was guilty, neither could she explain how the stolen articles came to be in her room. At last, with a motion to the trinkets on the floor, she said to Fay: “Take those things and carry them to your room.”

Left alone with the young girl who was in such deep trouble, she turned and putting her arms around Christine's shoulders said:

“Christine what is it? Can it be possible that you have really been taking these things all this time?”

But the poor girl could only stand with drawn face, wildly staring at her beloved teacher. Could it be possible that Mrs. Forest thought her guilty? The very thought was maddening. Why, oh why, did not some one come to explain the matter! Had the girls deliberately planned a joke on her? No, she would not believe that they would be so cruel. With a low, pitiful cry she dropped her head on Mrs. Forest's shoulder.

“Oh believe me, I know nothing about it. I had never thought of such a thing before tonight. I can't explain it, but surely there is some way to account for this thing.”

Mrs. Forest did not know what to do. Long and earnest she talked to the girl, but could find out nothing. Christine kept murmuring that she had never touched those jewels and knew nothing about it. But if she had not how did they get in her trunk? At last, saying that she would think over the matter and let her know her decision on the morrow, Mrs. Forest left the miserable girl in the dark room alone.

After Mrs. Forest left Christine, she went to her own room and tried to think of some solution of the problem. But try as she would, she always came back to the conclusion that Christine must have taken the things. There seemed no way out of it. Must she send her home? Certainly it would have to be done, for a dishonest girl could not be kept in school. Long into the night she thought and prayed over this thing, but could reach no definite conclusion. At last, deciding to defer further thought until the next day, she rose to turn off her light, but suddenly stopped. What was that she heard out in the hall? Mrs. Forest listened intently and could plainly hear the faint footsteps of some one. She noiselessly opened her door and peered out into the hall. She could see some one slowly moving towards her, but the light was so dim she could not recognize the person. Whoever it was stopped at Christine Vaughn's room, softly opened the door and passing in, closed the door after her. Mrs. Forest quickly followed, thinking that perhaps here was a solution of the mystery. She found Fay Harrell in Christine's room, fast asleep, replacing the articles that she had taken out of the trunk. only that afternoon.

IN MAY, 1893, the Alumnæ Association of the State Normal College was organized by the first ten graduates of the institution, “To further the well-being of the College by increasing the interest of its members in the College and in each other.” This small body, however, proved itself weak only in numbers, for its enthusiastic members, who had helped launch the ship of “Higher Education for Women” in North Carolina, who had stood so determinedly by their pilot during its first voyage across a then uncharted sea, and who now, in the desired haven, had received their honorable discharge, determined that, through their efforts, other women should be enabled to take the same voyage to their newly-discovered land of a possible independent and uplifted womanhood. Therefore, they assumed for the life work of the organization the establishment of an Alumnæ Loan Fund.

During the next nine years their little band was gradually augmented by new members from each succeeding class, and the work of raising and establishing this loan fund went steadily on. But the amount that could be raised was necessarily small, while the need for it was great. However, the President of the College who had always cooperated with the Association, in the capacity of an advisory board, knowing well the good that had already been accomplished through its small disbursements, and realizing, with almost prophetic vision, the wonderful good that could be accomplished through an organization that was gradually enrolling among its members representative young women from every section of the State, determined that their efforts should be supplemented. He worked heroically for this end and finally in the summer, or early fall of 1902, obtained the promise of the General Educational Board to supply one-half of an Alumnæ Loan and Scholarship Fund of fifteen thousand dollars, upon the condition that the Alumnæ Association itself should raise the remaining seven thousand five hundred dollars within three years time.

This offer he announced to the Alumnæ at their decennial meeting in May, 1903. The Association at that time consisted, in round numbers, of about two hundred young women, most of whom were teaching on small salaries in various public schools of the State, yet they undertook to raise their required share. In this work they were most nobly aided by the Association of Former Students, and in January, 1906, the entire amount had been collected. This fund of fifteen thousand dollars has always been handled in the name of the Alumnæ Association. and has already made possible the normal training of one hundred and forty-two young women, a part of the fund having been put into actual service as early as 1903.

Yet their success, and a partial realization of the benefits that would accrue therefrom, served not to satisfy, but rather to stimulate the members of the organization. So it was that, in November, 1906, when the Alumnæ Association and the Association of Former Students met at the College in special session, to plan their tribute to the memory of its founder and first President, the late Charles Duncan McIver, it was unanimously decided—however else the citizens of a grateful State might honor his memory—that the truest memorial that could be devised for him by these two bodies would be their effort to further the realization of the ideal in behalf of which he had spent his life; an ideal that meant the possibility of an education to every ambitious and deserving young woman in the State of North Carolina. The work of these two organizations thus becoming identical, they agreed at the following commencement to merge themselves under the name of the Alumnæ Association, and through the efforts of its members to raise the amount of fifty thousand dollars to be known as the McIver Loan Fund.

For this purpose a Field Secretary was appointed to visit every county of the State and organize local Alumnæ Associations. At this, time thirty-two counties have been visited, and the sum of seventeen thousand dollars has already been promised toward this fund, the various county organizations pledging themselves to raise amounts varying from one hundred to four thousand dollars. The portion of the fund already raised is now invested in the form of loan funds to deserving students, who, without this aid, could not complete their college course.

Thus, in brief, is stated both the history and the purpose of the organization. Within our College walls there are, today, many willing hearts and able hands whom we hope to have join us in this work. Most of you, it is true, did not know at first hand, as we did, the wonderful personality and sincerity of purpose of the man whose memory we honor. Yet, but for him, your College, as you know and love it, could not have been, and you can not thoughtfully go through your course without some realization of his far-sighted wisdom in shaping the policy of the institution, and some appreciation of his high ideals for the welfare of the State through the universal education of its women. Therefore we call on you, and all other coming daughters of our Alma Mater to join us in this work; a work by the women of the State for the higher womanhood of the State; a work, in its embryonic form, planned and made possible by the man to whose memory we now dedicate the budding flower of its achievement.

“A laugh is worth a hundred groans in any market.”