“Let’s just go without her,” suggested Katherine rebelliously. “There can’t be many more nice days.”
But Betty shook her head. “We don’t want to hurt her feelings. She’s a dear, even if she does act queerly this week. Besides, every one of us but Roberta and Madeline has that written lesson in English 10 to-morrow, and we ought to study. I’m scared to death over it.”
“So am I,” agreed Katherine sadly. “I suppose we’d better wait.”
“But we can go walking,” said Madeline to Roberta, and Roberta, more hurt than any of the rest by her idol’s strange conduct, silently assented.
They were scuffling gaily through the fallen leaves on an unfrequented road through the woods, when they heard a carriage coming swiftly up behind them and turned to see—of all persons—Mary Brooks, who hated driving, and Dr. Hinsdale. Mary was talking gaily and looked quite reconciled to her fate, and Dr. Hinsdale was leaving the horses very much to themselves in the pleasant absorption of watching Mary’s face. Indeed so interested were the pair in each other that they almost passed the two astonished girls standing by the roadside, without recognizing them at all. But just as she whirled past, Mary saw them, and leaned back to wave her hand and smile her “beamish” smile at the unwitting discoverers of her secret.
It was dusk and nearly dinner time before Dr. Hinsdale drew his horses up in front of the house around the corner, but Mary’s “little friends” gave up dressing, without a qualm, and even risked missing their soup to sit, lined up in an accusing row on her bed and her window-box, ready to greet her when she stumbled into her dark room and lit her gas.
“Oh, girls! What a start you gave me!” she cried, suddenly perceiving her visitors. “I suppose you think I’m perfectly horrid,” she went on hastily, “but truly I couldn’t help it. When a faculty asks you to go driving, you can’t tell him that you hate it—and I couldn’t for the life of me scrape up a previous engagement.”
“Speaking of engagements”—began Madeline provokingly.
“All’s fair in love, Mary,” Katherine broke in. “You’re perfectly excusable. We all think so.”
“Who said anything about love?” demanded Mary, stooping to brush an imaginary speck of dust from her skirt.