“Nonsense,” said Will with a lordly air. “Now a college girl—”
Everybody laughed. “You see we all know your theories about intellectual women,” said mother. “So suppose you take up the suit case and escort us home.”
The next morning a note arrived from Eleanor.
“Dearest Betty,” it ran:
“As you always seem to be just around the corner when I get into a box, I want to tell you that I rode down to New York with Miss Hale. She asked me to sit with her and I couldn’t well refuse, though I wanted to badly enough. She knew, Betty, but she will never tell. She said she was glad to know me on your account. She asked me how the term had gone with me, and I blushed and stammered and said that I was coming back in a different spirit. She said that college was the finest place in the world for a girl to get acquainted with herself–that cowardice and weakness of purpose and meanness and pettiness stood out so clearly against the background of fineness and squareness; and that four years was long enough to see all sorts of faults in oneself, and change them according to one’s new theories. As she said it, it didn’t sound a bit like preaching.
“I didn’t tell her that I was only in college for one year. I sent her a big bunch of violets to-day–she surely couldn’t regard it as a bribe now–and after Christmas I’ll try to show her that I’m worth while.
“Merry Christmas, Betty.
“Eleanor.”
Nan frowned when Betty told her about Eleanor. “But she isn’t a nice girl, Betty. Did I meet her?”
“Yes, she’s the one you thought so pretty–the one with the lovely eyes and hair.”