“Rack your brains, girls. Maybe some bright idea will strike us. Name, motto, officers, constitution, membership,—but it will be fun to think about it. I want Hilary for president, because she thought about it first and is used to societies and things in church work. She will know how to run it.”

“O, no,—” began Hilary, but was not permitted to go on.

“Please don’t begin that way, Hilary,” said Eloise. “We all ought to do our best in starting this, and I think all the girls feel that you will make our best first president. In after years,” she continued loftily, “when our descendants come to Greycliff, they will be shown a handsome painting, done by the world-renowned artist, Cathalina Van Buskirk, of Madam Hilary Lancaster—Somebody, first president of the Shakespearean Literary Society!”

“Listen to the inspired lady! By the way,” said Hilary, “that would not be a bad name.”

“School societies usually have a Greek or Latin name and some unreadable motto that half the members don’t understand.” Thus Eloise.

“It’s classic and all right,” said Lilian. “Father says he does not want schools to get away from the old classical studies, but I, too, think that the name of some great English author would be fine for our society. The collegiate societies have the other sort of names.”

Friday night came at last. In “Lakeview Suite” were Hilary, Lilian, Cathalina, Betty, Eloise, Helen, Juliet, Pauline, Isabel and Avalon. Lilian and Betty had just come in, each with a pan of hot fudge.

“Goody, girls!” exclaimed Isabel. “I was just wondering when we were going to have any eats and parties. Do you girls remember Hilary’s birthday box?”

“Do we remember!” exclaimed Pauline. “I can even taste that chicken yet!”

“Lilian and I are going to celebrate together this year,” announced Hilary, smiling. “Our birthdays come only a month apart, so we shall have two boxes.”

“You know I always did like you, Hilary,” said Isabel with great feeling, moving around to where Hilary stood.

“Little humbug,” said Hilary, as distinctly as she could with a bit of fudge that was a little too warm for comfort.

Isabel pretended to be crushed, but as Hilary added, “You’re all invited to the party,” she “registered” joy, as 

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