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Unfortunately, however, she found no such troop mentioned in the pages of the magazine. There was a call for leaders in one of the country districts, and an opportunity offered for camp councillors, but the cities evidently were well provided. Or perhaps, as she feared, no one had taken the trouble to look up any such groups of girls.

When Daisy Gravers dropped in a few minutes later, she was still deep in her problem.

“You’re welcome, Dais’,” she said, rising and offering her visitor a chair, “if you are not here to talk about the election. I’m bored to death with it.”

Daisy laughed good-naturedly; it was the same old, modest Marjorie, who had been sort of an idol to her ever since she had succeeded in finding her sister Olive and reuniting her with her husband, and later when she had sympathized with Daisy’s plea for the little slum-baby and its sick mother. Other people might prove disappointing, but Marjorie Wilkinson had never failed her.

“I’ll talk about anything you like, or keep absolutely quiet,” she replied amiably.