"Nothing!" sobbed the girl forlornly. Then, "Everything!"
Both remarks, so entirely opposite, were no doubt correct. Nothing really was the matter, and yet everything was wrong; for Alice Endicott was hopelessly homesick.
Marjorie ran the nose of her canoe aground upon the low bank and begged Alice to get in. Hardly knowing what she was about, the younger girl climbed into the bow and sank down facing Marjorie.
"Now tell me all about it," said Marjorie, in the most sympathetic tone imaginable. She thought of her own first days at the school, when Ruth, obviously so popular, had totally neglected her, and when her own room-mate, Lily Andrews, had seemed impossible. Remorseful, too, because of her own selfish happiness, she felt more eager than ever to comfort the lonely freshman. But it was a difficult matter, she knew.
"I want to go home," sobbed Alice, with her handkerchief at her eyes.
"No, no!" protested Marjorie. "Please give us another chance. Don't you like it a bit here?"
"I hate it!" exclaimed the other, with more emphasis than Marjorie thought her capable of. "You're the only girl who's been even half decent to me."
"And I'm ashamed of myself," muttered Marjorie sadly. "But please forgive us all, Alice; we didn't realize how you felt. Won't you, please—and wait a day or two while you decide whether you want to stay or not?"
Alice stopped crying; she was really surprised at Marjorie's sincerity in assuming the blame herself. Still, she pursued her same line of argument.
"There's nothing here that I can't get in school near home."