“Just like you?” repeated Betty vaguely.
“Yes. Don’t you see? I’m not left out any more.” She hesitated, then went on rapidly. “You see I had a lovely time at first, at the sophomore reception and the frolic and all, but it stopped and–this was a good while coming, and I got discouraged. Wasn’t it silly? I–oh, it’s all right now. I wouldn’t change places with anybody.” She began to rock violently. Betty had noticed that Helen rocked when other girls sang or danced jigs.
“But I thought–we all thought,” began Betty, “that you had decided you preferred to study–that you didn’t care for our sort of fun. You haven’t seemed to lately.”
“Not since it came over me why you girls here in the house were nice to me when nobody else was except Theresa,” explained Helen with appalling frankness. “You were sorry for me. I thought it out the day after you gave me the violets. Before I came to Harding,” she went on, “I did think that college was just to study. It’s funny how you change your mind after you get here–how you begin to see that it’s a lot bigger than you thought. And it’s queer how little you care about doing well in class when you haven’t anything else to care about.” She gave a little sigh, then got up suddenly. “I almost forgot; I have a message for Adelaide. And by the way, Betty, I saw your Miss Hale; she and somebody else were just going in to see Miss Mills when I left.”
She had scarcely gone when Mary sauntered back as if by accident. “Well, have you found out?” she asked. “As a student of psychology I’m vastly interested in this situation.”
“Found out what?” asked Betty unsmilingly.
“Why Miss Mills asked her, and why she is so pleased.”
“I suppose Miss Mills asked her because she was sorry for her,” answered Betty slowly, “and Helen is pleased because she doesn’t know it. Mary, she’s been awfully lonely.”
“Too bad,” commented Mary. Unhappiness always made her feel awkward.
“But she says this makes up to her for everything,” added Betty.