“Immune. Could a person be it without knowing it, do you suppose?”
Katherine had thrown herself across the room and had kissed Peggy fervently and repentantly at this remark. “Oh, I take it all back, Peggy,” she cried, “you’re not a genius. They always understand every word in the dictionary and you are—you are just a dear little dunce, after all!”
“Well, I like that!” exclaimed the injured young poet. “Let me read you this, Katherine,” she continued with shining eyes, “and then you’ll see—oh, Katherinekins, Katherinekins, what a bright room-mate you have, and how proud you’ll be of me to-morrow when Miss Tillotson reads this out in English 13.”
Katherine glanced toward the inky manuscript suspiciously.
“Is it very long?” she inquired.
Peggy only shot her a reproachful glance and began to read in a sweet, thrilly voice, that already showed the effects of strenuous elocution training and would have made the veriest nonsense in the world seem beautiful by reason of its triumphant youth and its perfect conviction.
“Dreams that are dear—of night—of day—
All I could think or hope or plan:
Naught is so sweet in that dream world’s sway
As this wonderful hour of the Present’s span.
There was a silence in the room when she had finished, and Peggy folded her manuscript up tenderly and laid it away on her desk with an air that was little short of reverent.
“How did you do it?” breathed Katherine, carried away by the magic of the voice rather than by any clear idea of what the voice had read. But she had a great deal of faith in Peggy, and anything she would read like that must be very fine. So Katherine passed her judgment on it immediately.
“Do you like it?” Peggy pleaded, “oh, do you? Oh, I’m so glad. It’s—it’s just a piece of my soul, Katherine.”