"Bearing the taunt of traitor resignedly, for instance."
"Doing what you think is right, and sticking to it, no matter how much suffering it entails—you mean," corrected the girl.
Under her friendly persistency, even Fred's self-pity could not long stand.
"By Jove, Alice! You're the best cure for the blues I ever knew!" he exclaimed impulsively. "If it hadn't been for you, I'd probably have gone round for a week or so thinking myself a regular martyr."
"I'm glad I'm some use to somebody," laughed the girl, a wistfulness in her tone. "Any time you feel the martyr attack coming on, let me know."
"I will; don't worry. By George! but we'll be late for class. Come on."
"I don't think I'll stay this morning," returned Alice. "I've a headache. But you go in. Good-bye—and remember to let me know when you feel the blues coming on."
In silence, Fred watched the girl pass down the steps of the school entrance and along the shady walk.
"She's a brick!" he declared emphatically, adding, "if she only didn't have a brother. But that's not her fault—and I shouldn't wonder if there wasn't any love lost between them."
In this surmise, Fred was nearer the truth than he realized. Of the three Montgomery children, Bart and Mary were as alike as two peas, arrogant and snobbish. In striking contrast, Alice was quick of sympathy and considerate of her fellows. And in consequence of this wide difference in their natures, Bart and Mary made their sister's life miserable with their bullying. With all her heart, Mary entered into her brother's hatred of his rival, while Alice never lost the opportunity of speaking a good word for Fred—a fact that did not tend to lessen the breach between them. But this hostility to her Alice took such pains to hide that even her mother and father were in ignorance of it, attributing her frequent headaches, her aloofness and her melancholy to ill-health.