“Me too,” said Marjory. “I know you can’t waltz, but let’s get up and do it anyway. We don’t need to look like wallflowers even if we are.”
There was another evidence of Marjory’s growing unpopularity. Once in two weeks there was a general spell down in the Assembly room. Some of the girls loved it, some of them hated it, according to their ability to spell; but they all quivered with excitement while it was going on.
Two of the Seniors marched importantly to the far corners of the room from which point, turn and turn about, they chose sides; and of course it was considered an honor to be among the first called—and a disgrace to be among the last.
Jean and Marjory spelled very well indeed and were usually among the first to be chosen. Mabel spelled just about as badly as anybody could and was always the last. She expected to be. She had grown accustomed to her place at the end of the line and felt as if it belonged to her. Bettie, Grace Allen, Augusta Lemon and Cora were easily downed; but sometimes survived the first word. Isabelle Carew could spell if she kept her mind on it, but once Miss Woodruff had given her the word “Claritude,” and she had gone to dreaming in the middle of it. She spelled it “Clar_ence_.” Of course, after that, everybody knew that Isabelle could not be considered a dependable speller.
But Marjory was. Her ears were keen and she liked to spell. It was a difficult matter to spell her down. Sometimes both Seniors, in their eagerness to get her, called her name in the same breath and then squabbled just like ordinary girls over which should have her. But now, for some undiscoverable reason, Marjory was being left with Mabel until the very last moment—until every other possible girl had been chosen. And this dreadful thing had happened twice.
The first time this happened, Marjory was so disconcerted that she almost forgot how to spell the very easy word that fell to her lot. The second time she was glad to hide behind tall Isabelle, who stood beside her; for there was a large lump in her throat, tears in her gray eyes and a tell-tale pink flush dyeing her small fair face from brow to chin.
Truly it was a terrible thing to be an unpopular person. Marjory wished she could sink through the floor, even if she landed, as she thought she might, in the laundry tubs beneath.
[CHAPTER XV—A SURPRISING FESTIVAL]
It was a dark afternoon outside and in. Sallie and the Lakeville girls were darning stockings in Henrietta’s room and the light was really too poor for so gloomy an occupation. They were glad when Maude dropped in, swept the stockings from the table and seated herself thereon. A few moments later Cora and little Jane Pool strolled in, followed shortly by Debbie Clark.
“Come on in, girls,” said Maude. “‘Nous avons les raisins blancs et noirs mais pas de cerises.’ In other words, there are no chairs but help yourselves to the floor. You’re just in time. Here’s Mabel cross as two sticks, Marjory terribly doleful for some unknown reason and Henrietta sulking every day at mail time and for hours afterwards. Such a grouchy bunch! What shall I do to cheer you up?”