"Oh, Sue, how perfectly ridiculous! Tell that to one or two more and I'll be a spiritualistic medium holding seances in my room."
Sue laughed, starting the dimples dancing in her cheeks. Those dimples saved Sue many a scolding. They defended her sharp tongue—exonerated malice. They pointed like a hand on a sign post to mirth and pure good nature. "You can't be angry with Sue when those dimples pop out," more than one girl had said.
The morning had been a trying one for Blue Bonnet. She had great difficulty in keeping her mind on her studies. Even Professor Howe had to ask for closer attention—an unheard of thing.
"Are you ill, Miss Ashe?" she had asked, calling Blue Bonnet to the desk after the class adjourned. "You don't look well. Better go up and show your tongue to Mrs. Goodwin or Miss Martin."
"It isn't my tongue—that is—I'm not at all ill, thank you, Professor Howe," Blue Bonnet replied absently.
She passed on to her Latin class, a little droop in her usually straight shoulders showing listlessness. She sat down by Wee Watts and opened her book, but her gaze wandered to the window.
"You may translate, Miss Ashe," Miss Attridge said for the second time and Blue Bonnet did not hear.
A titter went round the room. Blue Bonnet's gaze rested on the housetops. She was miles and miles away from the small recitation room.
"Come, Miss Ashe, the third oration, please; begin where Miss Watts left off—Cicero attacks Catiline, saying:"
Blue Bonnet came back with a start, and with Wee's assistance found the line.