“Miss Henrietta Bedford,” called Sallie.
Henrietta, pale and trembling, forced herself to step to the platform, received her letter, carried it to the window and nervously tore it open. Jean had followed her quietly and stood waiting to comfort her in case of need. After a moment or two, Henrietta pointed silently to the opening words and Jean read: “Still no news of your dear father.”
Presently Jean and Henrietta left the room and the sympathetic eyes of the other girls followed them to the doorway.
“That’s worse than losing a relative by sudden death,” said Eleanor Pratt, soberly.
“Yes,” agreed Elisabeth Wilson. “This suspense must be perfectly harrowing—in fact, I can see it is. Poor kid! I’m so sorry for her I don’t know what to do.”
“There isn’t anything one can do,” said Beatrice Holmes. “I’ve watched her every day at mail time and it’s just pitiful to see how she hates to open her letters.”
The mail distributed, some of the girls went to their respective rooms to remove from their persons the ink stains, chalk dust and other visible signs of a busy session in school. Others flocked to the veranda to stroll back and forth like caged lions grumbling in captivity.
“This is a beastly rain,” said little Jane Pool. “The ground is just soaked.”
“‘It isn’t raining rain, today,’” quoted Grace Allen, “‘it’s raining—’”
“Water,” said unpoetical Mabel.