“You can’t do it—not with Louise Johnson around,” returned Anne. “But never mind, Laura, they won’t forget this meeting, even if they do have to ‘react’ a bit. I’m sure that even Louise will keep the memory of this last Council tucked away in some corner of her harum-scarum mind.”
VIII
ELIZABETH AT HOME
In a tiny hall bedroom in one of the small brick houses that cover many blocks in certain sections of Washington, Elizabeth Page was standing a week later, trying to screw up her courage to a deed of daring; and because it was for herself it seemed almost impossible for her to do it. With her white face, her anxious eyes, and trembling hands, she seemed again the Poor Thing who had shrunk from every one those first days at the camp—every one but Olga.
Three times Elizabeth started to go downstairs and three times her courage failed and she drew back. So long as she waited there was a chance—a very faint one, but still a chance—that the thing she so desired might come true. But the minutes were slipping away, and finally, setting her lips desperately, she fairly ran down the stairs.
Her stepmother glanced up with a frown as the girl stood before her.
“Well, what now?” she demanded, in the sharp, fretful tone of one whose nerves are all a-jangle.
“I’ve done everything—all the supper work, and fixed everything in the kitchen ready for morning,” Elizabeth said, her words tumbling over each other in her excitement, “and O, please may I go this evening—to Miss Laura’s? It’s the Camp Fire meeting, and one of the girls is going to stop here for me, and—and O, I’ll do anything if only I may go!”