So Helena departed at Easter, amid the laments of her class. She would have been editor-in-chief of the “Argus” and Ivy Orator if she had stayed, they told her.
“I’ve willed my honors to the undiscovered geniuses,” she retorted daringly. “I’m tired of being called the cleverest girl in the class. I’m going home to give the rest of you a chance. College never exactly suited my style.”
Heartless, mocking, careless of what she had stolen, even unconscious of what she was restoring to the girl in the tower room, Helena left Harding, and no more ghosts disturbed the peace of Morton Hall.
One day just before the winter term closed, Eugenia stopped in to see Betty on her way home from Miss Dick’s.
“Something’s the matter with Dorothy,” she said. “I came back early, so you would have time to run over and see her before she goes to bed. She seems to be dreadfully disturbed about something and homesick and unhappy. She kept saying that nothing was the matter, but the tears would come creeping out. I don’t think she’s sick—just unhappy.”
“I’ll ask Miss Dick to let her come and stay with me to-night,” Betty suggested, slipping on an ulster.
Dorothy flew into her big sister’s arms, and fairly danced for joy when she was told that Betty had come to take her home.
“Have things been going criss-cross with you lately?” Betty asked her, as they ran back, hand in hand, to Morton Hall.
“Yes,” whispered Dorothy solemnly, “they have. Do you happen to feel like a reckless ritherum to-night, Betty dear?”
“Not especially to-night,” laughed Betty. “Do you?”