The Colonel re-read the letter and then, leaning over the fireplace, he carefully burned it. The check he placed in his long pocketbook.
“Poor girl,” he mused, as he watched the last bit of white paper charring among the coals. “How disappointed she will be just at first. She has many hard lessons to learn, but her father was wise to send her here, where the girls are all so wholesome and still children at heart.”
Then his pleasant face wrinkled into a smile as he thought of the prank which those same wholesome girls had played only the day before upon the poor, unsuspecting city maiden.
“I wonder if she will ever forgive them when she finds out that it was all a joke. She’ll probably be very indignant at first. Well,” he added, as he turned away and put on his great coat preparing to take his daily constitutional into town, “this winter’s experience will prove of what fiber the girl is really made, and, somehow, in spite of her present snobbishness and vanity, I have faith in her.”
Meanwhile Geraldine, up in her pleasant room, was seated in an easy chair close to the fire on the hearth. She was reading the letters, which were from her two best girl friends.
Out of the first letter that Geraldine opened there fluttered a kodak picture. A pretty yet weak face smiled out at her. It was Muriel Ellingworth and it had been taken at the Public Baths. Tom Blakely was also in the picture and, as Geraldine well knew, Muriel’s mother had forbidden her daughter to go either with that boy or to the public bathing pool.
In a languid scrawl, the letter assured her “dearest” friend that she was just terribly missed and suggested that Geraldine run away.
“I do wish I had some money to send to you, poor dear, but I haven’t. I spent the last penny of my allowance buying a pair of silk stockings. They are simply adorable! They have open work edged with gold thread, and of course I had to buy the slippers to match and they have gold buckles. You remember Mother said positively that I must not have them, and so I keep them over at Kittie Beverly’s, and when I go out with Tom, I stop there and put them on. As usual, I was asked what I had done with my allowance, but I was expecting it and had an answer ready. I said that I had given it to the poor babies’ milk fund.”
Geraldine dropped the letter in her lap and gazed at the fire. Lying was repugnant to her. She had always told the truth fearlessly and had taken the consequences. Then she continued reading the indolent scrawl: “Oh, Gerry dear, I have another piece of news to tell you. Adelaine Drexel took it upon herself to preach to me the other day after school. She told me that if I continued to meet boys and go to public baths and places like that, she feared that I would be asked to leave the seminary. And then, if you please, the minx told me that she hoped the advice would be taken as kindly as it was given. I told her in my best French to mind her own business, and I haven’t spoken to her since, and if you are my friend, you will snub her too. She is expecting a letter from you, but if I hear that you have written her I shall know that you have taken her side against your devoted Duckie Muriel.”
Again Geraldine gazed in the fire. All these dishonorable things looked so different in cold black and white. When Muriel herself was telling them in her vivacious, chattery manner, they didn’t seem half so, well, yes, dishonest was the word, and Geraldine had inherited her father’s scorn for dishonesty.