One miserable¹ day Dorothy found all her friends, at least those who had claimed to be her friends, suddenly lost to her. Those who were not openly rude enough to deliberately² turn their backs upon the astonished girl, made some pretense³ of avoiding conversation with her.  
It all came so unexpectedly, and without any apparent explanation, that Dorothy was stunned—even the effervescent Edna only gave her a measured smile and walked down the hall to the study room without breaking her silence.
 
The day wore on like a dream of awful fancies that try to choke but withhold⁴ even such a mercy as a final stroke.
 
What had she done? Where was Rose-Mary? And why would not someone come and accuse her outright⁵, that she might at least know the charge against her—a charge serious enough to spread in one day throughout Glenwood school!
 
Evening fell, but even then Rose-Mary did not come to Dorothy's room. On the following day there was to be a rehearsal⁶ for the play, and how could Lalia repeat her lines? How could Dorothy pretend to be the happy little pilgrim who starts alone on the uncertain path of life?
 
Mrs. Pangborn was ready in the recreation hall, some of the others were there discussing their characters and other things. The hour for the rehearsal came, and with it appeared some twenty girls, among them, but not their leader (so it seemed) being Viola Green.
 
They approached Mrs. Pangborn and then Adele Thomas spoke⁷.
 
"Mrs. Pangborn," she began with flushed cheeks, "we have come to say that we cannot take part in the play unless another girl is selected for the character of Lalia."
 
"Why!" demanded the astonished principal. "What does this mean!" and she too flushed at the very idea of her pupils' insurrection.
 
"Because—" faltered⁸ the spokeswoman, "we do not like her. She has pretended to be what she is not, and never will be."
 
This was a bold speech. Dorothy Dale paled to the lips.
 
"Hush⁹ this instant!" ordered the surprised Mrs. Pangborn. "Let no one dare make such an assertion. If anything is wrong my office is the place to settle it. Leave the hall instantly. I shall send for you when I desire to make an investigation¹⁰."
 
Mrs. Pangborn placed her hand tenderly on Dorothy's shoulder as she passed out.
 
"Do not worry, dear," she whispered. "This is some nonsense those girls with the new club idea have originated. It will be all right."
 
But Dorothy flew to her room and alone she cried—cried as if her heart would break! If only Tavia had not left her! If Rose-Mary would only come to her! Where was Rose-Mary? She had not even appeared at class that day. But, after all, what did it matter? Perhaps she too—no, Dorothy could not believe that. Rose-Mary would never condemn¹¹ her unheard.
 
How long Dorothy lay there sobbing¹² out her grief on the little white bed, she did not know. Dusk came and the supper hour, but she made no attempt to leave the room. A maid had been sent to her with some toast and tea, and a line from dear Miss Crane, but Dorothy was utterly¹³ unable to do more than murmur¹⁴ a word of thanks to be repeated to the thoughtful teacher.
 
When it grew so dark that the window shadows no longer tried to cheer her with their antics, Dorothy was startled by a sudden tap at her door, and, the next moment, Rose-Mary had her in her warm, loving arms.
 
"What is it?" demanded the older girl at once. "Tell me about it. What have they said to you?"
 
"Oh, Rose-Mary," sobbed¹⁵ Dorothy, bursting into fresh tears, "why did you leave me all alone?"
 
"Why, I did not leave you! I had to go into Rainsville early this morning, and have just this very minute gotten back. Mrs. Pangborn knew I would be late and sent James with the cart to meet me."
 
"Oh, I did not know you were out of school," and the explanation afforded Dorothy at least one ray of relief.
 
"Didn't Nita tell you? I asked her to do so at study hour."
 
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