And as Betty Nelson had, by right of more than one informal conquest, reached the position of leader, I can do no better than begin with her.

Betty was about sixteen years old.  She was not exactly what one would call “pretty”—­that is, at first glance.  More likely she would have been spoken of as “good-looking.”  At least by the boys.  And certainly Betty was good to look upon.  Her face showed her character.  There was a calm thoughtfulness about it that suggested strength of mind, and yet it was not the type of face called “strong.”  It was purely girlish, and it reflected her bright and vivacious manner perfectly.  How her features lighted up when she spoke—­or listened—­her friends well knew.  Her eyes seemed always to be dancing with fun, yet they could look calmly at trouble, too.

And when Betty Nelson looked at trouble that same trouble seemed to melt away—­to flee as though it had no right to exist.  And this not only as regarded her own troubles, but those of her friends as well.  Intensely practical was Betty, yet there was a shade of romance in her character that few suspected.  Perhaps the other girls had so often taken their little troubles to Betty, listening to her advice and sympathy, that they forgot she might have some of her own.  But, under it all, Betty had a romantic nature, that needed but a certain influence to bring it out.

Full of life and vigor she was always ready to assume the leadership in whatever of fun or work was at hand.  Perhaps that is why she was often called “The Little Captain,” and certainly she deserved the name.  Her father, Charles Nelson, was a wealthy carpet manufacturer, his factory being just outside of Deepdale, and her mother, Rose, was one of the society leaders of the town, though there was no elaborate social system.

A regular “Gibson girl,” was Grace Ford, not only in form but in face.  There was that well-rounded chin, and the neck on which was poised a head with a wonderful wealth of light hair.  The other girls rather envied Grace her hair—­especially Mollie, who was a decided brunette.  And, as I have said, Grace dressed to advantage.  There had been a time when she bemoaned the fact that she was tall—­“regular bean-pole” her brother had taunted her with being—­and Grace—­well, she had slapped him.  But this was some years ago.  But now, with the newer styles that seem to forbid the existence of hips, and with skirts that so circumscribe the steps that fast walking is impossible, Grace fitted in perfectly.  She was artistically tall and slender, which fact none knew better than she herself.

But Grace was not vain.  She did pose at times, but it was done naturally and without undue thought.  She just could not help it.

Her brother Will made no end of fun about her—­even at this date, but Grace had sufficient composure to ignore him now, and only smiled sweetly, remarking: 

“You only show how little you know, Billie-boy.  Run along now and play ball!”