None of the five slept soundly that night. The salt made them thirsty, the crowded quarters restless. Allison wakened every time a rooster crowed or a dog barked, because she felt that the responsibility of getting home before Barbry wakened rested upon her. Once when she was about to sink into a delicious doze, the shrill whistle of a locomotive aroused her to the consciousness that the early freight-train was rumbling past the depot. Opening her eyes she saw that the gray dawn was beginning to steal over the Valley. With a groan she sat up and stumbled across the room to arouse the others.
She had to shake Kitty several times, and when she at last staggered to her feet she yawningly quoted old Aunt Cindy's expression, that she was "as tired as a thousand of dawgs," and vowed she could never get home unless she was dragged there. Katie complained of a headache and a miserable "after the ball" feeling. It was a sorry-looking little trio which finally stumbled down the back stairs and out into the frosty dawn. Not a word was spoken on the way home. In silence they slipped up the stairs at The Beeches; in silence they undressed and crept into bed, and three hours later, when Barbry came as usual to call them, she knocked half a dozen times before she succeeded in arousing them.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE PRINCESS OF THE PENDULUM
There were literary exercises in the chapel the following Friday afternoon. It was the day for the reading of the Seminary Star, a monthly paper to which all the grades contributed. As a humourous account of the Hallowe'en celebrated was to be one of the chief features, spiced by many personal allusions, its appearance was looked for eagerly.
Little Magnolia Budine was the only one in the room impatient for the exercises to close. She sat near a front window looking out at every sound of approaching wheels, to see if the old carryall had stopped at the high green gate in front of the seminary. She had been hoping all afternoon that her father would come for her earlier than usual, and she half-expected that he would. The chill November days were short, and she knew that he would want to reach home before dark.
It was not that she failed to appreciate the interesting articles in the Star, but she was in a hurry for the ten-mile drive to be over. The reason for her impatience was packed away in the old carpet-bag, waiting outside in the hall. Unless she reached home before dark, a certain pleasure she had in store would have to be delayed till morning. So intent was she on listening for the sound of wheels, that she failed to hear the title of a short poem, which one of the editors announced as written by E. L. L. When Elise nudged her, whispering, "That's about you, Maggie," she turned with a start and blush to find every one looking at her. She was so confused she heard only the last verse:
"Not only did he steal the tarts
Made by the gracious queen,
He captured all the schoolgirls' hearts—
That little knave—on Hallowe'en."