“Huh! Lots you know about it. You never were driven to school against your will.”
“No. Whenever I got a chance to go I was glad.”
“Maybe I’d be glad, too, if I lived on a ranch,” returned Flossie, scornfully.
Helen came nearer to the desk and sat down beside her.
“You don’t look a bit pretty with your eyes all red and hot. Crying isn’t going to help,” she said, smiling.
“I suppose not,” grumbled Flossie, ungrateful of tone.
“Come, let me get some water and cologne and bathe your face.” Helen jumped up and went to the tiny bathroom. “Now, I’ll play maid for you, Flossie.”
“Oh, all right,” said the younger girl. “I suppose, as you say, crying isn’t going to help.”
“Not at all. No amount of tears will solve a problem in algebra. And you let me see the questions. You see,” added Helen, slowly, beginning to bathe her cousin’s forehead and swollen eyes, “we once had a very fine school-teacher at the ranch. He was a college professor. But he had weak lungs and he came out there to Montana to rest.”
“That’s good!” murmured Flossie, meaning bathing process, for she was not listening much to Helen’s remarks.