older girl whom she has enshrined in her heart as her ideal; no
sentiment like the intense admiration which puts a halo around
everything the beloved voice ever praised, or makes sacred everything
the beloved fingers have touched. Mary Ware at sixteen had not outgrown
any of the ardent admiration for Lloyd Sherman which had seized her when
she was only eleven, and now the desire to be like her flared up
stronger than ever.

She peered wistfully into the mirror, thinking, "Maybe just being in her
old room will help, because I shall be reminded of her at every turn."

For a moment the selfish wish was uppermost that she need not share the
room with any one. It seems almost desecration for a person who did not
know and love Lloyd to be so intimately associated with her. But Mary's
love of companionship was strong. Half the fun of boarding school in her
opinion was in having a room-mate, and she could not forego that
pleasure even for the sake of a very deep and tender sentiment. But she
made the most of her solitude while she had it. From kodak pictures she
had seen of the room, she knew at a glance which of the narrow white
beds had been Lloyd's, and immediately pre-empted it for herself,
staking out her claim by depositing her hat and gloves upon it.

As soon as her trunk was brought up stairs she fell to work unpacking,
with an energy in no wise diminished by the fatigue of the tiresome
journey. She had been cooped up on the cars so long that she was fairly
aching for something to do. In an hour's time all her clothes were
neatly folded or hung away, her shoe-pocket tacked inside the closet
door, her laundry-bag hung on a convenient nail, her few pictures
arranged in a group over her bed, and exactly half of the table laid out
with her portfolio, books and work-basket. She had been not only just