“You must come again, both of you, when I can make tea for you properly,” she said as she closed the carriage door.
Betty, leaning whitely back on Mary’s shoulder, with her arm on Miss Ferris’s softest down pillow, smiled happily between the throbs. If she was fated to have sprained her wrist, she was glad that she had met Miss Ferris.
Saturday night and Sunday were long and dismal beyond belief. The wrist ached, the cheek smarted, and a bad cold added its quota to Betty’s miseries. But she slept late Monday morning, and when she woke felt able to sit up in bed and enjoy her flowers and her notoriety. Just after luncheon the entire Chapin house came in to congratulate and condole with her.
“It’s too windy to have any fun outdoors,” began Rachel consolingly.
“Who sent you those violets?” demanded Katherine.
“Miss Ferris. Wasn’t it dear of her? There was a note with them, too, that said she considered herself still ‘deeply in my debt,’ because of her carelessness–think of her saying that to me!–and that she hopes I won’t hesitate to call on her if she ‘can ever be of the slightest assistance.’ And Mary, she said for us not to forget that Friday is her day at home.”
“You are the luckiest thing, Betty Wales,” sighed Rachel, who worshiped Miss Ferris from afar.
“Now if I’d knocked the august Miss Ferris down,” declared Katherine, “I should probably have been expelled forthwith. Whereas you—” She finished the sentence with an expressive little gesture.
“Who gave you the rest of this conservatory, Betty?” asked Mary Brooks.
“Clara Madison brought the carnations, and Nita Reese, a girl in my geometry division, sent the white roses, and Eleanor the pink ones, and the freshman I was sliding with these lilies-of-the-valley. It’s almost worth a sprained wrist to find out how kind people are to you,” said Betty gratefully.