“Crullers, I have brought you some shortcake.”
“I’ll be right out, Polly, dear,” called back Crullers, with a hasty change of heart. “Or, no, you may come in. I’m not even allowed to get out of bed.”
Polly pushed back the curtains, and there was Crullers, her hair braided in two long pigtails, one over each shoulder, undressed, with her pink kimono over her nightgown, and her face full of utter misery.
“You look just like somebody in history, and I can’t think who it is,” laughed Polly. “Somebody who sat up in bed at the last minute, and told everybody just what she thought of them before she died. Was it Catherine de Medici, or Queen Katherine?”
“Oh, Polly, don’t, please. Give me the shortcake quick. My heart is broken.”
“And your poor ‘tummy’ is all empty.” Polly handed her the basket, and sat down beside her. “Half of it is for Miss Murray.”
“Miss Murray!” Crullers pushed the cake from her indignantly. “Then I won’t eat a bit of it, Polly Page. How could you?”
Crullers turned right over, and buried her face in the pillow, sobbing, while the green basket barely escaped being capsized.
“How could I what?” asked Polly in astonishment. “Don’t you like Bonnie Jean?”
Then she stopped short, because, all at once, down at the far end of the dormitory, she saw Miss Murray, the teacher from out West, coming towards them with her quick, easy walk, and she was in riding habit.