"Your hair is very becoming that way," ventured the blonde Sally, whose own hair was always a most exacting halo—Sally had to live up to it. "And you don't mind being called Bobbie?"
"I like it," answered Shirley. "I suppose you know what a time I had to get the wig back to hair after the treatment. I am positive that east side French woman was trying an experiment on my poor head. But among other things the accident did for me, it gave my hair a chance to shoot." She ran her long fingers through the rather stubby growth that had taken on a decided unruliness in splendid imitation of curl. "You see it was rubbed every day, and that charitable nurse rubbed curl right in it. I just love it and wouldn't interfere with it for anything. Curling hair artificially, I know, simply makes it cranky."
"Yes, spoils its temper and breaks its character. Just like twisting a tender vine and forcing it to turn away from its chosen paths. How are you getting on with your cramming? Can I help you?" asked Sally, diverging suddenly.
"Hopeless," replied the other. "I don't believe I'll wait to face the music."
"Oh, you must, Miss Allen is so interested——"
"That's the hard part of it now. I can't face Miss Allen. She's such a good sport." The bobbed brown head was suddenly dropped into her cupped hands reflectively. "You see, at first, Kitten, I was just a rebel; satisfied to get in here and to have the name of it. Then, these girls whom I so despised were so fine to me," again the look of dejection, "and, girlie, when I lay on my back at the foot of that hill and Jane Allen whispered 'Shirley' into my buzzing ears— it did something to me." Her companion allowed the pause to act without venturing to interrupt it. It was the working of the miracle! "Yes, and she meant it, too," went on Shirley reflectively. "No silly stuff just because she feared I was done for. She and big, brown-freckled Dozia just seemed to drag me back to earth, while the other!" her eyes blazed. "Do you know why I have never spoken of my companion on that hateful ride?"
"No—I've wondered?"
"I've been ashamed to," declared Shirley, "and thankful the juniors who helped me did not torture me with questions. Well—she was that foreign element with a name like a crocheted alphabet and a face like a week old Easter egg—running its colors, you know. Dol has her down from New York to practice for the stage," this thought revived Shirley's spirits and she gave a gay howl. "I can see why she needs the woods to practice the yells she's cultivating," a foot was kicked out at the thought. "But I'm through with them, Kitten, but please don't think I've reformed," she gasped. "I despise turncoats and—traitors."
Shirley wore an angora tarn, leaf green sweater and big plaid golf skirt just then. No one in Wellington could have criticised her outfit. Even her attire seemed benefited by the miracle.
"Bye-by, little sister," she addressed Sally. "This experience has done something else for me other than opening my stupid eyes—it has given me a real chum."