And then suddenly an idea lifted her right up out of the depression and doubt that was settling over the room. She stepped over to the desk and held a confab with the Junior and the freshmen vote-collectors.
Alta Perry snatched eagerly at the chance to bring order out of chaos.
She arose and rapped for attention. Immediately all the despairing whispers ceased.
“Some one has suggested that the girls would like to see the candidates,” she said, “so that they’d know who they’re voting for.”
A wave of approval swept her audience.
“So I’ll ask the girls who are still up to come forward to the platform so that—everybody may see them.”
The crowd parted, while from three corners of the room the candidates came.
The Junior smiled apologetically as she ranged them before the class. This was vastly amusing to her, but she realized that all the voters were staring forward with hero-worship in their eyes waiting to see which was the girl for whom each had been so religiously voting, ballot after ballot.
“Myra Whitewell,” introduced Alta Perry, nodding toward the first girl.
The girl acknowledged the introduction with an abrupt lifting of her chin. She was small and dark, with snapping brown eyes and a fine, slender, somewhat selfish face with no color in it. Her lips were full and red.