“A lady of notable luck,Who cared not for turkey or duck,Cried, ‘Give me old hamAnd I don’t give a slam,If it comes from Vermont or Kaintuck.’”
“A lady of notable luck,Who cared not for turkey or duck,Cried, ‘Give me old hamAnd I don’t give a slam,If it comes from Vermont or Kaintuck.’”
“A lady of notable luck,Who cared not for turkey or duck,Cried, ‘Give me old hamAnd I don’t give a slam,If it comes from Vermont or Kaintuck.’”
This was greeted with laughing groans, and Molly for the first time realized the significance of her roommate’s name.
Margaret Wakefield figured in several croaks, as “the Suffragette of Queen’s.” In fact Queen’s girls came in for a good many croaks and began to wait fearfully for what was to come next. But the witticisms were all quite good-natured, even the last, which called forth so many merry groans that they soon ceased to be groans at all and became uproarious laughter, and Molly, very red and laughing, too, was the centre of all eyes. This was the croak:
“They have locked me in the Cloisters,They have fastened up the gate!Oh, let me out; Oh, let me out.It’s getting very late.’Tis said the ghosts of classes goneDo wander here at night.Oh, let me out; Oh, let me out,Before I die of fright!And then there rang a clarion voice.It’s tone was loud and clear.‘Oh, dry your eyes and cease your cries,For help, I ween, is near.But promise me one little thingBefore I ope the gate:Oh, never pass the coffee tray,If I am sitting nigh;Or, if you pass the coffee tray,Oh, then, just pass me by!’”
“They have locked me in the Cloisters,They have fastened up the gate!Oh, let me out; Oh, let me out.It’s getting very late.’Tis said the ghosts of classes goneDo wander here at night.Oh, let me out; Oh, let me out,Before I die of fright!And then there rang a clarion voice.It’s tone was loud and clear.‘Oh, dry your eyes and cease your cries,For help, I ween, is near.But promise me one little thingBefore I ope the gate:Oh, never pass the coffee tray,If I am sitting nigh;Or, if you pass the coffee tray,Oh, then, just pass me by!’”
“They have locked me in the Cloisters,They have fastened up the gate!Oh, let me out; Oh, let me out.It’s getting very late.
’Tis said the ghosts of classes goneDo wander here at night.Oh, let me out; Oh, let me out,Before I die of fright!
And then there rang a clarion voice.It’s tone was loud and clear.‘Oh, dry your eyes and cease your cries,For help, I ween, is near.
But promise me one little thingBefore I ope the gate:Oh, never pass the coffee tray,If I am sitting nigh;Or, if you pass the coffee tray,Oh, then, just pass me by!’”
It was all very jolly and delightful, and for the first time the girls felt that they were really a part of the college life.
Mary Stewart was very sweet to Molly when she took her home that night, and the young freshman never realized until long afterwards, when she was a senior herself, what a nice thing her friend had done; for sophomore-freshman receptions were an old story to Mary Stewart.
Busy days followed the sophomore-freshman ball. The girls were “getting into line,” as Judy variously expressed it; “showing their mettle; and putting on steam for the winter’s work.” The story of the incendiary had been reported exaggerated and had gradually died out altogether. Frances Andrews had returned to college, more brazenly facetious than ever, breaking into conversations, loudly interrupting, making jokes which no one laughed at except Molly and Judy out of charity. She was a strange girl and led a lonely life, but she was too much like the crater of a sleeping volcano, which might shoot off unexpectedly at any moment, and most of the girls gave her a wide berth.
The weather grew cold and crisp. There was a smell of smoke in the air from burning leaves and from the chimneys of the faculty homes wherein wood fires glowed cheerfully.
At last Saturday arrived. It was the day of the excursion to Exmoor, and it was with more or less anxiety regarding the weather that the three girls scanned the skies that morning for signs of rain. But the heavens were a deep and cloudless blue and the air mildly caressing, neither too cold nor too warm.
“It is like the Indian summers we have at home,” exclaimed Molly, when, an hour later, they turned their faces toward the village through which the trolley passed.
Mabel Hinton, passing them as they started, had called out:
“Art off on a picnic?”
And they had answered:
“We art.”
Some other girls had cried:
“Whither away so early, Oh?”
And they had cried:
“To Exmoor! To Exmoor, for now the day has come at last!” paraphrasing a song Judy was in the habit of singing.
Indeed the day seemed so perfect and joyous that they could hardly keep from singing aloud instead of just humming when they boarded the trolley car.
Through the country they sped swiftly. The valley unfolded itself before them in all its beauty and the misty blue hills in the distance seemed to draw nearer. Over everything there was a sense of autumn peace which comes when the world is drowsing off into his deep sleep.
“Exmoor!” called the conductor at last, and the three girls stepped off at a charming rustic station. With a clang of the bell which rang out harshly in the still air, the car flew on.
The three girls looked at the empty station. Then they looked at each other with a kind of mock consternation, for nothing really mattered.
“Where is Dodo?” asked Judy, with the smile of the victor, since she had predicted only a few moments before that Dodo might by this time have become so frightened at his boldness that he would suddenly become extinct like his namesake, the dodo-bird.
“Well, if Dodo is really extinct,” said Molly, “we’ll just take a little walk back through the fields. Epiménides thought nothing of it. He expects to walk to-day and meet us at lunch.”
But Dodo was not extinct that morning, and they beheld him now running down the steep road as fast as his heavy boots could carry him.
“Behold, his spirit has risen from its fossil remains and he now walks among us in the guise of a man,” chanted Judy.
“Don’t make us laugh, Judy, just as the poor soul arrives without enough breath to apologize,” said Nance, and the next instant the embarrassed young man stood before them blushing and stammering as if he had been caught in the act of picking a pocket or committing some other slight crime which required explanation.
“I’m terribly sorry—have you waited long?—the schedule was changed—I didn’t know—you should have come half an hour later—I don’t mean that—I mean I wasn’t ready—” he broke off in an agony of embarrassment and the girls burst out laughing.
“Don’t you be caring,” said Judy. “We’re here and nothing else really matters.”
“I shouldn’t have thought the station of a man’s college could be so deserted,” observed Molly, looking about the empty place.
Dodo assured her that plenty of people would be there in half an hour, when the train arrived; just then everybody was either in the village on the other side of the buildings, or down on the football grounds watching the morning practicegame. There was to be a real game that afternoon.
“You see, it’s only a small college,” he went on. “There are only two hundred and fifty in all. The standards are so high it’s rather hard to get in, but we are heavily endowed and can afford to keep up the standards,” he added proudly.
They climbed the road to the college almost in silence and in ten minutes emerged on a level elevation or table land which commanded a view of the entire countryside. Here stood the college buildings, built of red brick, seasoned and mellowed with time. They were a beautiful and dignified group of buildings, and there was a decidedly old world atmosphere about the place and the campus with splendid elm trees. Molly had once heard Judith Blount refer to Exmoor as that “one-horse, old-fashioned little college,” and she was not prepared for anything so fine and impressive as this.
Nor was she prepared for the surprise of Miss Green, sister of Professor Edwin and Dodo. The girls had pictured her a middle-aged spinster, having heard she was older than the Professor himself, who seemed a thousand to them. And here, waiting for them, in the living room of theChapter House, was a very charming and girlish young woman with Edwin’s brown eyes and cleft chin and George’s blonde hair; the ease and graciousness of one brother and the youthful fairness of the other. She had come down from New York the night before especially to meet them, she said.
Rather an expensive trip, they thought, for one day’s pleasure, since it took about seven hours and meant usually one meal and of course at night a berth on the sleeper.
“At first I thought I couldn’t manage it for this week,” she continued, “but Edwin was so insistent and no one has ever been known to refuse him anything he really wanted.”
Edwin! But why Edwin? Why not the youthful and blushing Dodo? So Molly wondered, while they were conducted over the entire college; the beautiful little Gothic chapel with its stained glass windows; through the splendid old library which was much smaller than the one at Wellington, but much more “atmospheric” as Judy had remarked; then through the dormitories where they remained discreetly in the corridors, and finally back to the Chapter House, in which George lodged with some thirty schoolmates.
There on the piazza was Professor Edwin Green waiting for them. He had made an early start, he said, and walked the whole distance in less than three hours. Some other young men came up and were introduced, and the entire gay party, Nance shyly sticking closely beside Miss Green, went off to view the village, which was a quaint old place well worth visiting, they were told.
The train had evidently come in, and crowds of people were hurrying up the road. There was a sound of a horn and a coach dashed in sight filled with students wearing crimson streamers in their buttonholes.
“It’s a crowd of Repton fellows come over to see their team licked,” George explained, “but look, Edwin, here comes Dickie Blount. I thought he was in Chicago.”
“Evidently he isn’t,” said the Professor, his eyes smiling, his mouth serious. It was Richard Blount, the hero of the ham bone, and he straightway attached himself to Molly and declined to leave her side for the rest of the day.
“Don’t tell me that that delightful, joking, jolly person is brother to Judith,” whispered Judy in Molly’s ear.
Molly nodded.
“There’s no family resemblance, but it’s true, nevertheless.”
Motor cars and carriages of all varieties now began to arrive. The whole countryside had turned out to see the great game between the two local college teams, and the Wellington girls pinned green rosettes in their buttonholes to signify that their sympathies were all for Exmoor.
“It’s the most exciting, jolliest time I ever had in all my life,” cried Molly to Professor Green, who walked on her other side. “And to think I have never seen a football game before in all my life.”
“I must draw a diagram for you and show you what some of the plays are, or you will be in a muddle,” said the Professor, looking at her gravely, almost, as Molly thought, as if she were one of his English Literature pupils.
At lunch, according to the etiquette of the place, George and his guests were placed at the senior table. There was no smoking nor loud talking and the students behaved themselves most decorously, although George confided to Judy that ordinarily pandemonium prevailed.
After lunch they started for the grounds in atriumphal procession; for our Wellington freshmen and their chaperone had an escort of at least four or five young men apiece. Nance looked bewildered and shy and happy; Judy was never more sparkling nor prettier, and Molly was in her gayest, brightest humor.
They had hardly left the Chapter House behind them and proceeded in a snake-like procession across the campus, when a black and prancing, though rather bony, steed dashed up bearing a young lady in a faultlessly fitting riding habit. It was Judith Blount.
Nobody looked particularly thrilled at Judith’s appearance, not even Judith’s brother, and Judy almost exclaimed out loud:
“Bother! Why couldn’t she stay at home just once?”
“How do you do, Cousin Grace?” called Judith from her perch. “I heard you were going to be down and I couldn’t resist riding over to see you.”
“How are you, Judith? I’m so glad to see you,” answered Cousin Grace in a tone without much heart to it. “Why didn’t you come sooner? We’ve just finished lunch.”
“Thanks, I had a sandwich early. I suppose you are off for the grounds. Go ahead. I’llget Cousin Edwin to help me tie up this old animal somewhere. We’ll follow right behind.”
Molly was almost certain that Cousin Edwin was about to place this office on the shoulders of his younger brother, but glancing again at the flushed and happy face of Dodo at the side of Judy, the Professor relented and dropped behind to look after his relation.
Never had Molly been so wildly excited as she was over the football game that afternoon. It was a wonderful picture, the two teams lined up against each other; crowds of people yelling themselves hoarse; the battle cry of the Repton team mingling with the warlike cry of the Exmoor students. The cheer leaders at the heads of the cheer sections made the welkin ring continuously. At last a young man, who seemed to be a giant in size and strength, dashed like a wild horse across the Russian steppes straight up the field with the ball under his arm, and from the insane behavior of the green men, including Professor Edwin Green and his fair sister, Molly became suddenly aware that the game was over and Exmoor had won.
The cheering section could yell no more, because to a man it had lost its voice; but, oh, theglad burst of song from the Exmoor students as they leaped into the field and bore the conquering giant around on their shoulders. And, oh! the dejection of the men of crimson as they stalked sadly from the scene of their humiliation.
At last the whole glorious day was over and the girls found themselves on the way to the trolley station. Richard Blount and his cousin, Miss Green, had hastened on ahead. They were to take the six o’clock train back to New York.
“Cousin Edwin, why can’t you hire a horse in the village and ride back to Wellington with me?” asked Judith, when they paused at the Chapter House for her to mount her black steed.
“Because I’m engaged to take these young ladies home by trolley, Judith,” answered the Professor firmly.
Judith leaped on her horse without assistance, gave the poor animal a savage lash with her whip and dashed across the campus without another word.
The ride back at sunset was even more perfect than the morning trip. The Professor of English Literature appeared to have been temporarily changed into a boy. He told them funnystories and bits of his own college experiences, and made them talk, too. Almost before they knew it, the conductor was calling: “Wellington!”
It was quite the custom at Wellington for girls to prepare breakfasts on Sunday morning in their rooms. There was always the useful boneless chicken to be creamed in one’s chafing dish; and in another, eggs to be scrambled with a lick and a promise, at these impromptu affairs; and it was a change from the usual codfish balls of the Sunday house breakfast.
“It was quite the custom for girls to prepare breakfast in their rooms.—Page 152.It was quite the custom for girls to prepare breakfast in their rooms.—Page 152.
On this particular Sunday morning, Judy was very busy; for the breakfast party was of her giving, in Molly’s and Nance’s room; her own “singleton” being too small. She was also very angry in her tempestuous and unrestrained way, and having emptied the vials of her wrath on Molly’s head, she was angrier with herself for giving away to temper.
Although it was Judy’s party, Molly, as usual kind-hearted and grandly hospitable, had invited Frances Andrews. Then she had goneand confessed her sins to Judy, who flared up and said things she hadn’t intended, and Molly had wept a little and owned that she was entirely at fault. But what could be done? Frances was invited and had accepted. To atone for her sins, poor Molly had made popovers as a surprise and arranged to bake them in Mrs. Murphy’s oven. But the hostess being gloomy, the company was gloomy, since the one is apt to reflect the humor of the other. However, as the coffee began to send forth its cheerful aroma from Judy’s Russian samovar, discord took wings and harmony reigned. It was a very comfortable and sociable party. Most of the girls wore their kimonos, it being a time for rest and relaxation; but when Frances Andrews swept into the room in a long lavender silkpeignoirtrimmed with frills of lace, all cotton crepe Japanese dressing gowns faded into insignificance.
“There is no doubt that college girls are a hungry lot,” remarked Margaret Wakefield, settling herself comfortably to dispose of food and conversation and arouse argument, a thing she deeply enjoyed.
“So much brain work requires nourishment,” observed Mabel Hinton.
“There is not much brain nourishment at Queen’s,” put in Frances Andrews. “I’ve been living on raw eggs and sweet chocolate for the last week. The table has run down frightfully.”
Sallie Marks was a loyal Queen’s girl, and resented this slur on the table of the establishment which was sheltering her now for the third year.
“The food here is quite as good as it is at any of the other houses,” she said coldly to the unfortunate Frances, who really had not intended to give offence.
“Pardon me, but I don’t agree with you,” replied Frances, “and I have a right to my own opinion, I suppose.”
Judy gave Molly a triumphant glance, as much as to say, “You see what you have done.”
Everybody looked a little uncomfortable, and Margaret Wakefield, equal to every occasion, launched into a learned discussion on how many ounces of food the normal person requires a day.
Once more the talk flowed on smoothly. But where Frances was, it would seem there were always hidden reefs which wrecked every subject, no matter how innocent, the moment it was launched.
“Molly, I can trade compliments with you,”put in Jessie Lynch, taking not the slightest notice of her roommate’s discourse. “It’s one of those very indirect, three-times-removed compliments, but you’ll be amused by it.”
“Really,” said Molly, “do tell me what it is before I burst with curiosity.”
“I said ‘trade,’” laughed Jessie, who liked a compliment herself extremely.
“Oh, of course,” replied Molly. “I have any number I can give you in exchange. How do you care for this one? Mary Stewart thinks you are very attractive.”
“Does she, really? That’s nice of her,” exclaimed Jessie, blushing with pleasure as if she hadn’t been told the same thing dozens of times before. “I think she’s fine; not exactly pretty, you know, but fine.”
“I suppose you don’t know how her father made his money?” broke in Frances.
There was a silence, and Molly, feeling that she was about to be mortified again by something disagreeable, cried hastily:
“Oh, dear, I forgot the surprise. Do wait a moment,” and dashed from the room.
While she was gone, Nance and Judy began filling up the intervals with odd bits of conversation,helped out by the other girls, and Frances Andrews did not have another opportunity to put in her oar. Suddenly she rose and swept to the door.
“You would none of you feel interested to know, I suppose, that Mary Stewart’s father started life as a bootblack——”
“That’s what I’m starting life as,” cried Molly, who now appeared carrying a large tray covered with a napkin. “I am the official bootblack of Queen’s, and I make sometimes one-fifty a week at it. I hope I’ll do as well as Mr. Stewart in the business. Have a popover?”
She unfolded the napkin and behold a pile of golden muffins steaming hot. There were wild cries of joy from the kimonoed company.
“And now, Jessie, I’ll take my second-hand, roundabout compliment——” she began, when Judy interrupted her.
“Won’t you have a popover, Miss Andrews?” she asked in a cold, exasperated tone.
“Thanks; I eat the European breakfast usually—coffee and roll——”
“Yes, I’ve been there,” answered Judy.
“I’ll say good morning. I’ve enjoyed your littleparty immensely,” and Frances marched out of the room and banged the door.
“I should think you would have learned a lesson by this time, Molly Brown,” cried Judy hotly. “There is always a row whenever that girl is around. She can’t be nice, and there is no use trying to make her over.”
“I’m sorry,” said Molly penitently. “I wish I could understand why she behaves that way when she knows it’s going to take away what few friends she has.”
“I think I can tell you,” put in Mabel Hinton. “Nobody likes her, and nobody expects any good of her. If you are constantly on the lookout for bad traits, they are sure to appear. It’s almost a natural law. Everybody was expecting this to-day, and so it happened, of course. If we had been cordial and sweet to her, she never would have said that about Mary Stewart or the food at Queen’s, either.”
“Dear me, are we listening to a sermon,” broke in Judy flippantly.
But, in spite of Judy’s interruption, Mabel’s speech made an impression on the girls, some of whom felt a little ashamed of their attitude toward Frances Andrews.
“Did you ever see a dog that had been kicked all its life?” went on Mabel; “how it snarls and bites and snaps at anybody who tries to pet it? Well, Frances is just a poor kicked dog. She’s done something she ought not to have done, and she’s been kicked out for it, and she’s so sore and unhappy, she snarls at everybody who comes near her.”
“Mabel, you’re a brick!” exclaimed Sallie Marks. “I started the fight this morning and I’m ashamed of it. I’m going to make a resolution to be nice to that poor girl hereafter, no matter how horrid she is. It will be an interesting experiment, if for no other reason.”
“Let’s form a society,” put in Molly, “to reinstate Frances Andrews, and the way to do it will be to be as nice as we can to her and to say nice things about her to the other girls.”
“Good work!” cried Margaret Wakefield, scenting another opportunity to draw up a constitution, by-laws and resolutions. “We will call a first meeting right now, and elect officers. I move that Molly be made chairman of the meeting.”
“I second the motion,” said Sallie heartily. “All in favor say ‘aye.’”
There was a chorus of laughing “ayes” and a society was actually established that morning, Molly, as founder, being elected President. It consisted of eight members, all freshmen, except the good-natured Sallie Marks, who condescended, although a junior, to join.
“Suppose we vote on a name now,” continued Margaret who wished to leave nothing undone in creating the club. “Each member has a right to suggest two names, votes to be taken afterward.”
It was all very business-like, owing to Margaret’s experienced methods, but the girls enjoyed it and felt quite important. As a matter of fact, it was the first society to be established that year in the freshman class, and it developed afterward into a very important organization.
Among the various names suggested were “The Optimists,” “The Bluebirds,” “The Glad Hands,” mentioned by Sallie Marks, and “The Happy Hearts.”
“They are all too sentimental,” said the astute Margaret, looking them over. “There’ll be so many croaks about us if we choose one of these names that we’ll be crushed with ridicule. Howabout these initials—‘G.F.’ What do they stand for?”
“Gold Fishes,” replied Mabel Hinton promptly. The others laughed, but the name pleased them, nevertheless. “You see,” went on Mabel, “a gold fish always radiates a cheerful glow no matter where he is. He is the most amiable, contented little optimist in the animal kingdom, and he swims just as happily in a finger bowl as he does in a fish pond. He was evidently created to cheer up the fish tribe and I’m sure he must succeed in doing it.”
The explanation was received with applause, and when the votes were taken, “G.F.” was chosen without a dissenting voice.
It was decided that the club was to meet once a week, it’s object, to be, in a way, the promotion of kindliness, especially toward such people as Frances Andrews, who were friendless.
“We’ll be something like the Misericordia Society in Italy,” observed Judy, “only, instead of looking after wounded and hurt people, we’ll look after wounded and hurt feelings.”
It was further moved, seconded and the motion carried that the society should be a secret one; that reports should be read each week bymembers who had anything to report; and, by way of infusing a little sociability into the society, it was to give an entertainment, something unique in the annals of Wellington; subject to be thought of later.
It was noon by the time the first meeting of the G. F. Society was ready to disband. But the girls had really enjoyed it. In the first place, there was an important feeling about being an initial member of a club which had such a beneficial object, and was to be so delightfully secretive. There was, in fact, a good deal of knight errantry in the purpose of the G. F.’s, who felt not a little like Amazonian cavaliers looking for adventure on the highway.
“Really, you know,” observed Jessie, “we should be called ‘The Friends of the Wallflowers,’ like some men at home, who made up their minds one New Year’s night at a ball to give a poor cross-eyed, ugly girl who never had partners the time of her life, just once.”
“Did they do it?” asked Nance, who imagined that she was a wallflower, and was always conscious when the name was mentioned.
“They certainly did,” answered Jessie, “and when I saw the girl afterward in the dressingroom, she said to me, ‘Oh, Jessie, wasn’t it heaven?’ She cried a little. I was ashamed.”
“By the way, Jessie, I never got my compliment,” said Molly. “Pay it to me this instant, or I shall be thinking I haven’t had a ‘square deal.’”
“Well, here it is,” answered Jessie. “It has been passed along considerably, but it’s all the more valuable for taking such a roundabout route to get to you. I’ll warn you beforehand that you will probably have an electric shock when you hear it. You know I have some cousins who live up in New York. One of them writes to me——”
“Girl or man?” demanded Judy.
“Man,” answered Jessie, blushing.
There was a laugh at this, because Jessie’s beaux were numerous.
“His best friend,” she continued, “has a sister, and that sister—do you follow—is an intimate friend——”
“‘An intimate friend of an intimate friend,’” one of the girls interrupted.
“Yes,” said Jessie, “it’s obscure, but perfectly logical. My cousin’s intimate friend’s sister has an intimate friend—Miss Green——”
“Oh, ho!” cried Judy. “Now we are getting down to rock bottom.”
“And Miss Green told her intimate friend who told my cousin’s intimate friend’s sister—it’s a little involved, but I think I have it straight—who told her brother who told my cousin who wrote it to me.”
“But what did he write,” they demanded in a chorus.
“That one of Miss Green’s brothers was crushed on a charming red-headed girl from Kentucky.”
Molly’s face turned crimson.
“But Dodo is crushed on Judy,” she laughed.
“It may be,” said Jessie. “Rumors are most generally twisted.”
The first meeting of the G. F.’s now disbanded and the members scattered to dress for the early Sunday dinner. They all attended Vespers that afternoon, and in the quiet hour of the impressive service more than one pondered seriously upon the conversation of the morning and the purpose of the new club.
It was several days before the G. F.’s had an opportunity to practise any of their new resolutions on Frances Andrews. The eccentric girl was in the habit of skipping meals and eating at off hours at a little restaurant in the village, or taking ice cream sundaes in the drug store.
At last, however, she did appear at supper in a beautiful dinner dress of lavender crêpe de chine with an immense bunch of violets pinned at her belt. She looked very handsome and the girls could not refrain from giving her covert glances of admiration as she took her seat stonily at the table.
It was the impetuous, precipitate Judy who took the lead in the promotion of kindliness and her premature act came near to cutting down the new club in its budding infancy.
“You must be going to a party,” she began, flashing one of her ingratiating smiles at Frances.
Frances looked at her with an icy stare.
“I—I mean,” stammered Judy, “you are wearing such an exquisite dress. It’s too fine for ordinary occasions like this.”
Frances rose.
“Mrs. Markham,” she said to the matron of Queen’s, “if I can’t eat here without having my clothes sneered at, I shall be obliged to have my meals carried to my room hereafter.”
Then she marched out of the dining room.
Mrs. Markham looked greatly embarrassed and nobody spoke for some time.
“Good heavens!” said Judy at last in a low voice to Molly, “what’s to be done now?”
“Why don’t you write her a little note,” replied Molly, “and tell her that you hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings and had honestly admired her dress.”
“Apologize!” exclaimed Judy, her proud spirit recoiling at the ignoble thought. “I simply couldn’t.”
But since her attack on Molly, Judy had been very much ashamed of herself, and she was now taking what she called “self-control in broken doses,” like the calomel treatment; that night she actually wrote a note to Frances and shovedit under the door. In answer to this abject missive she received one line, written with purple ink on highly scented heavy note paper:
“Dear Miss Kean,” it ran, “I accept your apology.“Yours sincerely,“Frances Le Grand Andrews.”
“Dear Miss Kean,” it ran, “I accept your apology.
“Yours sincerely,“Frances Le Grand Andrews.”
“Le Grand, that’s a good name for her,” laughed Judy, sniffing at the perfumed paper with some disgust.
But she wrote an elaborate report regarding the incident and read it aloud to the assembled G. F.’s at their second meeting.
In the meantime, Sallie Marks had her innings with the redoubtable Frances, and retreated, wearing the sad and martyred smile of one who is determined not to resent an insult. One by one the G.F.’s took occasion to be polite and kind to the scornful, suspicious Frances. Her malicious speeches were ignored and her vulgarities—and she had many of them—passed lightly over. Little by little she arrived at the conclusion that refinement did not mean priggishness and that vulgarity was not humor. Of course the change came very gradually. Not infrequentlyafter a sophomore snub, the whipped dog snarled savagely; or she would brazenly try to shock the supper table with a coarse, slangy speech. But with the persistent friendliness of the Queen’s girls, the fires in her nature began to die down and the intervals between flare-ups grew longer each day.
Frances Andrews was the first “subject” of the G.F.’s, and they were as interested in her regeneration as a group of learned doctors in the recovery of a dangerously ill patient.
In the meantime, the busy college life hummed on and Molly felt her head swimming sometimes with its variety and fullness. What with coaching Judy, blacking boots, making certain delicious sweetmeats called “cloudbursts,”—the recipe of which was her own secret,—which sold like hot cakes; keeping up the social end and the study end, Molly was beginning to feel tired. A wanness began to show in the dark shadows under her eyes and the pinched look about her lips even as early as the eventful evening when she posed for the senior living picture show.
“This child needs some make-up,” the august senior president had exclaimed. “Where’s therouge and who’s got my rabbit’s foot? No, burned cork makes too broad a line. Give me one of the lighter colored eyebrow pencils. You mustn’t lose your color, little girl,” she said, dabbing a spot of red on each of Molly’s pale cheeks. “Your roses are one of your chief attractions.”
A great many students and some of the faculty had bought tickets for this notable occasion, and the gymnasium was well filled before the curtain was drawn back from a gigantic gold frame disclosing Mary Stewart as Joan of Arc in the picture by Bastien Le Page, which hangs in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. There was no attempt to reproduce the atmospheric visions of the angel and the knight in armor, only the poor peasant girl standing in the cabbage patch, her face transfigured with inspiration. When Molly saw Mary Stewart pose in this picture at the dress rehearsal, she could not help recalling the story of the bootblack father.
“She has a wonderful face, and I call it beautiful, if other people don’t,” she said to herself.
As for our little freshman, so dazed and heavy was she with fatigue, the night of the entertainment,that she never knew she had created a sensation, first as Botticelli’s “Flora,” barefooted and wearing a Greek dress constructed of cheesecloth, and then as “Mrs. Hamilton,” in the blue crepe with a gauzy fichu around her neck.
After the exhibition, when all the actors were endeavoring to collect their belongings in the confusion of the green room, Sallie Marks came running behind the scenes.
“Prexy has specially requested you to repeat the Flora picture,” she announced, breathlessly.
“Is Prexy here?” they demanded, with much excitement.
“She is so,” answered Sallie. “She’s up in the balcony with Professor Green and Miss Pomeroy.”
“Well, what do you think, we’ve been performing before ‘Queen Victoria and other members of the royal family,’ like P. T. Barnum, and never knew a thing about it,” said a funny snub-nosed senior. “‘Daily demonstrations by the delighted multitude almost taking the form of ovations,’” she proceeded.
“Don’t talk so much, Lulu, and help us, for Heaven’s sake! Where’s Molly Brown of Kentucky?” called the distracted President.
Molly came forth at the summons. Overcome by an extreme fatigue, she had been sitting on a bench in a remote corner of the room behind some stage property.
“Here, little one, take off your shoes and stockings, and get into your Flora costume, quick, by order of Prexy.”
In a few minutes, Molly stood poised on the tips of her toes in the gold frame. The lights went down, the bell rang, and the curtains were parted by two freshmen appointed for this duty. For one brief fleeting glance the audience saw the immortal Flora floating on thin air apparently, and then the entire gymnasium was in total darkness.
A wave of conversation and giggling filled the void of blackness, while on the stage the seniors were rushing around, falling over each other and calling for matches.
“Who’s light manager?”
“Where’s Lulu?”
“Lulu! Lulu!”
“Where’s the switch?”
“Lulu’s asleep at the switch,” sang a chorus of juniors from the audience.
“I’m not,” called Lulu. “I’m here on the job, but the switch doesn’t work.”
“Telephone to the engineer.”
“Light the gas somebody.”
But there were no matches, and the only man in the house was in the balcony. However, he managed to grope his way to the steps leading to the platform, where he suddenly struck a match, to the wild joy of the audience. Choruses from various quarters had been calling:
“Don’t blow out the gas!”
“Keep it dark!”
And one girl created a laugh by announcing:
“The present picture represents a ‘Nocturne’ by Whistler.”
Then the janitor began lighting gas jets along the wall and finally a lonesome gas jet on the stage faintly illumined the scene of confusion.
The gigantic gilt frame outlined a dark picture of hurrying forms, and huddled in the foreground lay a limp white object, for Botticelli’s “Flora” had fainted away.
The confusion increased. The President joined the excited seniors and presently the doctor appeared, fetched by the Professor of English Literature. “Flora” was lifted onto acouch; her own gray cape thrown over her, and opening her eyes in a few minutes, she became Molly Brown of Kentucky. She gazed confusedly at the faces hovering over her in the half light; the doctor at one side, thePresident at the other; Mary Stewart and Professor Green standing at the foot and a crowd of seniors like a mob in the background.
Suddenly Molly sat up. She brushed her auburn hair from her face and pointed vaguely toward the hall:
“I saw her when she——” she began. Her eye caught Professor Green’s, and she fell back on the couch.
“You saw what, my child?” asked the President kindly.
“I reckon I was just dreaming,” answered Molly, her Southern accent more marked than ever before.
The President of the senior class now hurried up to the President of Wellington University.
“Miss Walker,” she exclaimed, her voice trembling with indignation, “we have just found out, or, rather, the engineer has discovered, that some one has cut the electric wires. It was a clean cut, right through. I do think it was an outrage.”She was almost sobbing in her righteous anger.
The President’s face looked very grave.
“Are you sure of this?” she asked.
“It’s true, ma’am,” put in the engineer, who had followed close on the heels of the senior.
Without a word, President Walker rose and walked to the centre of the platform. With much subdued merriment the students were leaving the gymnasium in a body. Lifting a small chair standing near, she rapped with it on the floor for order. Instantly, every student faced the platform, and those who had not reached the aisles sat down.
“Young ladies,” began the President in her calm, cultivated tones that could strike terror to the heart of any erring student, “I wish to speak a word with you before you leave the gymnasium to-night. Probably most of you are aware by this time that the accident to the electric lighting was really not an accident at all, but the result of a deliberate act by some one in this room. Of course, I realize, that in so large a body of students as we have at Wellington University there must, of necessity, be some black sheep. These we endeavor, by every effort, to regenerate and by mid-years it is usually not a difficult matterto discover those who are in earnest and those who consider Wellington College merely a place of amusement. Those who do consider it as such, naturally, do not—er—remain with us after mid-years.”
To Molly, sitting on the platform, and to other trembling freshmen in the audience, the President seemed for the moment like a great and stern judge, who had appointed mid-years as the time for a general execution of criminals.
“I consider,” went on the speaker in slow and even tones, “idleness a most unfortunate quality, and I am prepared to combat it and to convince any of my girls who show that tendency that good hard work and only good hard work will bring success. A great many girls come here preferring idleness and learn to repent it—before mid-years.”
A wave of subdued laughter swept over the audience.
“But,” said the President, her voice growing louder and sterner, “young ladies, I am not prepared to combat chicanery and trickery by anything except the most severe measures, and if there is one among you who thinks and believes she can commit such despicable follies as thatwhich has been done to-night, and escape—I would say to her that she is mistaken. I shall not endure such treachery. It shall be rooted out. For the honor and the illustrious name of this institution, I now ask each one of you to help me, and if there is one among you who knows the culprit and does not report it to me at once, I shall hold that girl as responsible as the real culprit. You may go now, and think well over what I have said.”
The President retired and the students filed soberly and quietly from the gymnasium.
“How do you feel now, dear?” asked President Walker, leaning over Molly and taking her hand.
“Much better, thank you,” answered Molly, timidly.
“Could you hear what I was saying to the girls?” continued the President, looking at her closely.
“Yes,” faltered Molly.
“Think over it, then. And you had better stay in bed a few days until you feel better. Have you prescribed for her, doctor?”
The doctor nodded. He was a bluff, kindly Scotchman.
“A little anæmic and tired out. A good tonic and more sleep will put her to rights.”
Mary Stewart had telephoned for a carriage to take Molly home, and Judy, filled with passionate devotion when anything was the matter, hurried ahead to turn down the bed, lay out gown and wrapper and make a cup of bouillon out of hot water and a beef juice capsule; and finally assist her beloved friend—whom she occasionally chastened—to remove her clothes and get into bed.
“I may not have many chances to wait on you, Molly, darling,” she exclaimed, when Molly protested at so much devotion. “I may not have a chance after mid-years.”
If she had mentioned death itself, she could not have used a more tragic tone.
“Judy,” cried Molly, slipping her arms around her friend’s neck, “I’m not going to let you go at mid-years if I have to study for two.”
“This is like having a bedroomsalon,” exclaimed Molly with a hospitable smile to some dozen guests who adorned the divans and easy chairs, the floor and window sills of her room.
Surely there was nothing Molly liked better than to entertain, and when she had callers, she always entertained them with refreshments of some kind. Often it had to be crackers and sweet chocolate, and she had even been reduced to tea. But usually her family kept her supplied with good things and her larder was generally well stocked.
She lay in bed, propped up with pillows, and scattered about the bed were text-books and papers.
“You’ve been studying again, you naughty child,” exclaimed Mary Stewart, shaking her finger. “Didn’t Dr. McLean tell you to go easy for the next week?”
“Go easy, indeed,” laughed Molly. “You might as well tell a trapeze actor to do the giant-swing and hold on tight at the same time. But it’s worth losing a few days to find out what loving friends I have. Your pink roses are the loveliest of all,” she added, squeezing her friend’s hand.
“Tell us exactly who sent you each bunch?” demanded Jessie, passing a box of ginger-snaps, while Judy performed miracles with a tea ball, a small kettle and a varied assortment of cups and saucers. “I have a right to ask you,” continued Jessica, “because you asked the same question of me last Tuesday when two boxes came.”
“No suitor sent me any of these, Mistress Jessica,” answered Molly, “because I haven’t any. Miss Stewart sent the pink ones, and the President of the senior class sent the red ones. Judy brought me the double violets and Nance the lilies of the valley, bless them both, and another senior the pot of pansies. The seniors have certainly been sweet and lovely.”
“There’s one you haven’t accounted for,” interrupted Jessie.
“The violets?” asked Molly, blushing slightly.
“Oh, ho!” cried Jessie in her high, musical voice, “trying to crawl, were you? You can’t deceive old Grandmamma Sharp-eyes. Honor bright, who sent the violets?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. I suspected Frances Andrews, but when I thanked her for them, she looked horribly embarrassed and said she hadn’t sent them. I was afraid she would go down and get some after my break, but thank goodness, she had the good taste not to.”
“You mean to say they were anonymous?” demanded Jessie.
“I mean to say that thing, but I suppose some of the seniors who preferred to remain unknown sent them.”
“It’s just possible,” put in Mary, and the subject was dropped.
“Let’s talk about the only thing worth talking about just now,” broke in Judy. “The Flopping of Flora; or, Who Cut the Wires?”
“Why talk about it?” said Molly. “You could never reach any conclusion, and guessing doesn’t help.”
“Oh, just as a matter of interest,” replied Judy. “For instance, if we were detectives andput on the case, how would we go about finding the criminal?”
“I should look for a silly mischief-maker,” said Mary Stewart. “Some foolish girl who wanted to do a clever thing. Freshmen at boys’ colleges are often like that.”
“You don’t think it was a freshman, do you, Miss Stewart?” cried Mabel Hinton, turning her round spectacles on Mary like a large, serious owl.
“Oh, no, indeed. I was only joking. I haven’t the remotest notion who it is.”
“If I were a detective on the case,” said Mabel Hinton, “I should look for a junior who was jealous of the seniors. Some one who had a grudge, perhaps.”
“If I were a detective,” announced Margaret Wakefield, in her most judicial manner, “I should look for some one who had a grudge against Molly.”
“Of course; I never thought of that. It did happen just as Molly was about to give the encore, didn’t it?”
“It did,” answered Margaret.
The girls had all stopped chattering in duets and trios to listen.
“Has any one in the world the heart to have a grudge against you, you sweet child?” exclaimed Mary Stewart, placing her rather large, strong hand over Molly’s.
The young freshman looked uncomfortable.
“I hope not,” she said, smiling faintly. “I never meant to give offence to any one.”
Pretty soon the company dispersed and Molly was left alone with her two best friends.
“Judy,” she said, “will you please settle down to work this instant? You know you have to write your theme and get it in by to-morrow noon, and you haven’t touched it so far.”
Nance was already deep in her English. Molly turned her face to the wall and sighed.
“I can’t do it,” she whispered to herself; “I simply cannot do it.” But what she referred to only she herself knew.
In the meantime Judy chewed the end of her pencil and looked absently at her friend’s back. Presently she gave the pad on her lap an impatient toss in one direction and the pencil in another, and flung herself on the foot of Molly’s couch.
“Don’t scold me, Molly. I never compose, except under inspiration, and inspiration doesn’tseem to be on very good terms with me just now. She hasn’t visited me in an age.”
“Nonsense! You know perfectly well you can write that theme if you set your mind to it, Judy Kean. You are just too lazy. You haven’t even chosen a subject, I’ll wager anything.”
“No,” said Judy sadly.
“Why don’t you write a short story? You have plenty of material with all your travel——”
“I know what I’ll write,” Judy interrupted her excitedly, “The Motives of Crime.”
“How absurd,” objected Molly. “Besides, don’t you think that’s a little personal just now, when the whole school is talking about the wire-cutter?”
“Not at all. We are all trying to run down the criminal, anyhow. I shall take the five great motives which lead to crime: anger, jealousy, hatred, envy and greed. It will make an interesting discourse. You’ll see if it doesn’t.”
“The idea of your writing on such a subject,” laughed Molly. “You’re not a criminal lawyer or a prosecuting attorney.”
“I admit it,” answered Judy, “and I suppose Lawyer Margaret Wakefield ought to be theone to handle the subject. But, nevertheless, I am fired with inspiration, and I intend to write it myself. I shall not see you again until the deed is done, if it takes all night. By the way, lend me some coffee, will you? I’m all out, and I always make some on the samovar for keeping-awake purposes when I’m going to work at night.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Judy,” sighed Molly, as the incorrigible girl sailed out of the room, a jar of coffee under one arm and her writing pad under the other.
At first she wrote intermittently, rumpling up her hair with both hands and chewing her pencil savagely; but gradually her thoughts took form and the pencil moved steadily along, almost like “spirit-writing” it seemed to her, until the essay was done. It was half-past three o’clock and rain and hail beat a dismal tattoo on her window pane. She had not even noticed the storm, having hung a bed quilt over her window and tacked a dressing gown across the transom to conceal the light of the student’s lamp from the watchful matron. Putting out her light and removing all signs of disobedience, she now cheerfully went to bed.
“Motives for crime,” she chuckled to herself. “I suppose I’m committing a small crime for disobeying the ten-o’clock rule, and my motive is to hand in a theme on time to-morrow.”
The next morning when Judy read over her night’s work, she enjoyed it very much. “It’s really quite interesting,” she said to herself. “I really don’t see how I ever did it.”
She delivered the essay at Miss Pomeroy’s office and felt vastly proud when she laid it on the table near the desk. Her own cleverness told her that she had done a good thing.
“I don’t believe Wordsworth ever enjoyed his own works more than I do mine,” she observed, as she strolled across the campus. “And because I’ve beenbon enfant, I shall now take a rest and go forth in search of amusement.” She turned her face toward the village, where a kind of Oriental bazaar was being held by some Syrians. It would be fun, she thought, to look over their bangles and slippers and bead necklaces.
In the meantime, Miss Pomeroy was engaged in reading over Judy’s theme, which, having been handed in last, had come to her notice first. Such is the luck of the procrastinator.
She smiled when she saw the title, but the theme interested her greatly, and presently she tucked it into her long reticule, familiar to every Wellington girl, and hastened over to the President’s house.
“Emma,” she said (the two women were old college mates, and were Emma and Louise in private), “I think this might interest you. It’s a theme by one of my freshman girls. A strange subject for a girl of seventeen, but she’s quite a remarkable person, if she would only apply herself. Somehow, it seems, whether consciously or unconsciously, to bear on what has been occupying us all so much since last Friday.”
The President put on her glasses and began to read Judy’s theme. Every now and then she gave a low, amused chuckle.
“The child writes like Marie Corelli,” she exclaimed, laughing. “And yet it is clever and it does suggest——” she paused and frowned. “I wonder if she could and doesn’t dare tell?” she added slowly.
“I wonder,” echoed Miss Pomeroy.
“Is she one of the Queen’s Cottage girls? They appear to be rather a remarkable lot this year.”
“Some of them are very bright,” said Miss Pomeroy.
“Louise,” said the President suddenly, “Frances Andrews is one of the girls at that house, is she not?”
“Yes,” nodded the other, with a queer look on her face.
“She’s clever,” said the President. “She’s deep, Emma. It is impossible to make any definite statement about her. One must go very slowly in these things. But after what happened last year, you know——”
She paused. Even with her most intimate friend she disliked to discuss certain secrets of the institution openly.
“Yes,” said Miss Pomeroy, “she is either very deep or entirely innocent.”
“Some one is guilty,” sighed the President. “I do wish I knew who it was.”
Judy’s theme not only received especial mention by Miss Pomeroy, but it was read aloud to the entire class and was later published in the college paper,The Commune, to Judy’s everlasting joy and glory. She was congratulated about it on all sides and her heart was swollen with pride.
“I think I’ll take to writing in dead earnest,”she said to Molly, “because I have the happy faculty of writing on subjects I don’t know anything about, and no one knows the difference.”
“I wish you’d take to doing anything in dead earnest,” Molly replied, giving her friend a little impatient shake.
“Mrs. Anna Oldham, the famous suffragette, will speak in the gymnasium on Saturday afternoon, at four o’clock, on ‘Woman’s Suffrage.’ All those interested in this subject are invited to be present.”
Molly and Judy, with a crowd of friends, on the way from one classroom to another one busy Friday had paused in front of the bulletin board in the main corridor.
“Mrs. Anna Oldham?” they repeated, trying to remember where they had heard the name before.
“Why, Judy,” whispered Molly, “that must be Nance’s mother. Do you—do you suppose Nance knows?”
“If she does, she has never mentioned it. You know she never tells anything. She’s a perfect clam. But this, somehow, is different.”
Both girls thought of their own mothers immediately.Surely they would have shouted aloud such news as Nance had.
“Shall we mention it to her, or do you think we’d better wait and let her introduce the subject?” asked Molly.
“Surely she corresponds with her own mother,” exclaimed Judy without answering Molly’s question.
“Her father writes to her about once a week, I know; but I don’t think she hears very often from Mrs. Oldham. You see, her mother’s away most of the time lecturing.”
“Lecturing—fiddlesticks!” cried Judy indignantly. “What kind of a mother is she, I’d like to know? I’ll bet you anything Nance doesn’t know at all she’s going to be here. I think we ought to tell her, Molly.”
“Poor Nance,” answered Molly. “I don’t know which would mortify her most: to know or not to know. Suppose we find out in some tactful roundabout way whether she knows, and then I’ll offer to go in with you Saturday night and give her mother my bed.”
Judy cordially consented to this arrangement, having a three-quarter bed in her small room, although secretly she was not fond of sharing itand preferred both her bed and her room to herself.
It was not until much later in the day that they saw Nance, who appeared to be radiantly and buoyantly happy. Her usually quiet face was aglow with a soft light, and as she passed her two friends she waved a letter at them gayly.
“You see, she knows and she is delighted,” exclaimed Judy. “Just as we would be. Oh, Molly, wait until you see my mother, if you want to meet a thing of beauty and a joy forever. You’d think I was her mother instead of her being mine, she is so little and sweet and dainty.”
Molly laughed.
“Isn’t she coming up soon? I’d dearly love to meet her.”
“I’m afraid not. You know papa is always flying off on trips and mamma goes with him everywhere. I used to, too, before I decided to be educated. It was awfully exciting. We often got ready on a day’s notice to go thousands of miles, to San Francisco or Alaska or Mexico, anywhere. Papa is exactly like me, or, rather, I am exactly like him, only he is a hundred timesbetter looking and more fascinating and charming than I can ever hope to be.”
“You funny child,” exclaimed Molly; “how do you know you are not all those things right now?”
“I know I’m not,” sighed Judy. “Papa is brilliant, and not a bit lazy. He works all the time.”
“So would you if you only wanted to. You only choose to be lazy. If I had your mind and opportunities there is no end to what I would do.”
Judy looked at her in surprise.
“Why, Molly, do you think I have any mind?” she asked.
“One of the best in the freshman class,” answered her friend. “But look, here are some letters!”
She paused in the hall of Queen’s Cottage to look over a pile of mail which had been brought that afternoon.
There were several letters for the girls; Judy’s bi-weeklies from both her parents, who wrote to her assiduously, and Molly’s numerous home epistles from her sisters and mother. But therewere two, one for each of the girls, with the Exmoor postmark on them.
Molly opened hers first.
“Oh, Judy,” she exclaimed, “do you remember that nice Exmoor Sophomore named ‘Upton?’ He wants to come over Saturday afternoon to call and go walking. Dodo has probably written the same thing to you. I see you have an Exmoor letter.”
“He has,” answered Judy, perusing her note. “He wishes the honor of my company for a short walk. Evidently they don’t think we have many engagements since they don’t give us time to answer their notes.”
“Judy!”
“Molly!”
The two girls looked at each other for a brief moment and then broke into a laugh.
“Nance’s letter must have been from one of the others, Andy McLean, perhaps, that was why she was so——”
Judy paused. Somehow, it didn’t seem very kind to imply that poor Nance was elated over her first beau.
“Dear, sweet old Nance!” cried Molly, her heart warming to her friend. “She will probablyhave them by the dozens some of these days.”
“I’m sure I should camp on her trail if I were a man,” said Judy loyally. “But, Molly,” she added, laughing again, “what are we to do about old Mrs. Oldham?”
“Oh, dear! I hadn’t thought of that. And poor Nance would have enjoyed the walk so much more than a learned discourse on woman’s rights.”
Just before supper time Nance burst into the room. She was humming a waltz tune; her cheeks looked flushed, and she went briskly over to the mirror and glanced at her image quickly, while she took off her tam and sweater.
The girls had never seen her looking so pretty. They waited for her to mention the note, but she talked of other things until Judy, always impatient to force events, exclaimed:
“What was that note you were waving at us this afternoon, Nance?”
“Oh, that was from——”
A tap on the door interrupted her and Margaret Wakefield entered.
“Oh, Nance,” she cried, “I am so excited over your mother’s coming to speak at college to-morrowafternoon. Isn’t it fine of her? It’s Miss Bowles, Professor in Advanced Math., who is bringing her, you know, of course?”
Except that her face turned perfectly white, Nance showed no sign whatever that she had received a staggering blow, but her two friends felt for her deeply and Molly came to her rescue.
“By the way, Nance, dearest,” she said, “I thought you might want to have your mother with you to-morrow night, and I was going to offer you my bed and turn in with Judy.”
“Thanks, Molly,” answered Nance, huskily; “that would be nice.”
Very little ever escaped the alert eyes of Margaret Wakefield; but if she noticed anything strange in Nance’s manner, she made no comment whatever. She was a fine girl, full of sympathy and understanding, with a certain well-bred dignity of manner that is seldom seen in a young girl.
“It will be quite a gala event at Queen’s if Mrs. Oldham eats supper here,” she said gently; “but no doubt she will be claimed by some of the faculty.” Then she slipped quietly out of the room, just in time, for quiet, self-contained Nanceburst suddenly into a storm of weeping and flung herself on the bed.
“And she never even took the trouble to tell me,” she sobbed brokenly. “She has probably forgotten that I am even going to Wellington.”
It was a difficult moment for Molly and Judy. Would it be more tactful to slip out of the room or to try and comfort Nance? After all, she had had very little sympathy in her life, and sympathy was what she craved and love, too, Molly felt sure of this, and with an instinct stronger than reason, she slipped down beside her friend on the couch and put her arms around her.