“But you are not Hortense’s age,” returned her father, coolly. “Remember that. And I must have better reports of your conduct in school than have reached me lately,” he added.
Flossie sulked over the rest of her dinner. Helen, going up slowly to her room later, saw the door of her youngest cousin’s room open, and glancing in, beheld Flossie with her head on her book, crying hard.
Each of these girls had a beautiful room of her own. Flossie’s was decorated in pink, with chintz hangings, a lovely bed, bookshelves, a desk of inlaid wood, and everything to delight the eye and taste of any girl. Beside the common room Helen occupied, this of Flossie’s was a fairy palace.
But Helen was naturally tender-hearted. She could not bear to see the younger girl crying. She ventured to step inside the door and whisper:
“Flossie?”
Up came the other’s head, her face flushed and wet and her brow a-scowl.
“What do you want?” she demanded, quickly.
“Nothing. Unless I can help you. And if so, that is what I want,” said the ranch girl, softly.
“Goodness me! You can’t help me with algebra. What do I want to know higher mathematics for? I’ll never have use for such knowledge.”
“I don’t suppose we can ever learn too much,” said Helen, quietly.