“Call it the Whitecap,” said Millicent. “Then those who are prosaic can mean the cook’s white cap, which is the badge of our club, and poetic souls like Nan can mean the whitecaps of the breaking waves dashed high.”
All agreed to this, and “The Whitecap” was scrawled across the cover in artistically uncertain characters.
“Now, my lambs, you must go to bed,” said the Matron, ruffling up her halo and looking very sleepy. “What time do we rise, Duchess?”
“Oh, whenever we unanimously agree to. We’ll all call each other. Where are your candles, Lamplighter?”
“On the hall table”; and, sure enough, there stood eight candles, burning in a heterogeneous assortment of candlesticks. Helen grasped her banjo and began to play a lullaby.
“Put up the book, Poet, and come along.”
But Nan was adding a final verse, though her sleepy audience would scarcely wait to hear:
“The rest of the evening passed quickly away,
And thus came to a close the first happy day.
Then each maid with her candle filed slowly upstairs,