“Only once since—since—well, I’m afraid I can’t truthfully say since Christmas,” laughed Mrs. Post. “I guess what those two need is a show of firmness. I’ll see them to-night and tell them that the very next time means a report to President Wallace.”
“Miss Romance has had three callers again this week, hasn’t she?”
“Three calls, but only one caller. She’s settled down to one now, and I guess he’s all right—he seems to be a real nice country boy. He lives in the little place where she does, and he walks six miles and back each time he comes to call. Seems to me that shows he’s fond enough of her to mean business. As for her, college is all nonsense for a girl like that. She hasn’t sense enough to take it in. She’d better be at work or helping her mother, or making a home of her own. She’ll always be silly and rattle-pated and provoking to sensible people, as long as she lives. I’ve told her so—I mean I’ve advised her not to struggle along here through the whole course.”
Betty sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Not every girl is capable of getting much out of college. Well, anyway, there’s always the Thorn to congratulate ourselves on. She’s really turning out to be a very pleasant, helpful person to have in the house.”
Mrs. Post nodded. “She’s your triumph, and Esther Bond is mine. She says she’s been happier down in this room talking to me about my three girls and the weather and the price of eggs and the way the laundry tears our linen than she’s been before in her whole life. I wish I could make her see that if she enjoys being friends with a stupid old lady like me, she’d enjoy ten times more being intimate with girls of her own age. She doesn’t dispute me. She just smiles that terribly tragic smile of hers, shakes her head, and changes the subject.”
“Do you suppose some one has hurt her feelings?” asked Betty. “Or is she just naturally secretive and reserved?”
“She’s naturally very confiding,” declared Mrs. Post. “Seems as if she was friends with everybody in the village where she lived when she was little. Something’s happened, and it’s happened since she came here, I think. But whatever it is she’s bound nobody shall ever know about it. And when she makes up her mind she makes it up hard and to stay.”
“I wonder if the ghost noises have stopped, or if the Thorn has just suppressed the reports?” Betty queried. “I never quite understood why the Mystery didn’t complain the day they nearly battered down her door.”
“She’s never even mentioned it to me,” Mrs. Post declared. “She seems to hate to talk about anything connected with her college life. She acts smart enough. She doesn’t have any trouble keeping up with her classes, does she?”
Betty shook her head. “She’s very good in most things—I asked Miss Ferris about her—only she never answers except when she’s asked directly, and then she says just as little as she can. Miss Raymond had her over one day this winter to tell her that her themes were very promising, only they stopped just when the reader was beginning to be interested. But Miss Bond said she always wrote down all that she thought of on each subject, and she acted so frightened and unhappy that Miss Raymond let her go home and hasn’t tried to encourage her since. It must be dreadful to be so shy that every one thinks you’re offish, and even the faculty don’t dare to pursue their efforts to help you along. Just think, Mrs. Post! She might be one of the leading writers in her class, if she’d only let Miss Raymond take an interest in her work. Couldn’t you talk to her about it? I’m sure she’d enjoy the recognition, and perhaps when she felt that she had a position of her own in the college she’d be willing to come out of her shell and make friends.”