“Now, Elizabeth, please do not speak in that tone. I was sorry for my words that evening the moment I spoke. But I am hasty. I try my best to keep quiet when I’m angry; but now and then I express myself before I realize it. You can’t expect perfection in anyone. A quick temper is my besetting sin. I try to overcome it; but until I do my friends must bear with me. No one is perfection.”
“Indeed,” was the reply, “I’m rather surprised that you hold such an opinion. From the way you spoke that evening, I could not have judged you to be so liberal.”
Miss Wilson knew her words were wasted. With a quick, impulsive movement she crossed the room to where Elizabeth stood, and throwing her arms about her, cried out, “You must not talk like that, Elizabeth. You are not naturally sarcastic. Let me be the disagreeable one—if one there must be.”
She drew Elizabeth’s head down, kissing her warmly. It was impossible to be vexed long with such a whole-souled, impulsive girl as Miss Wilson. Elizabeth smiled and relented. From that time matters between the two moved smoothly as at first; but Elizabeth did not relax her vigilance. She realized how others might be inconvenienced and mortified by her carelessness. From an economical point of view, too, it was better to reform; for she had lost much time, and been tardy at class frequently on account of having to hunt for some needed article.
This week proved to be one of the most eventful of Elizabeth’s school year. She did not plan to go home for Thanksgiving. The Saturday previous she received a box from her mother. It was filled with all the good things a mother’s heart could devise and a cook’s skillful hands make ready. Miss Wilson carried the news of the arrival of the box to Elizabeth.
“The expressman’s on his way up with an immense box,” she cried, tossing back her hair, and talking as excitedly as though Exeter Hall were governed by a Board of Starvation.
Elizabeth hurried to the door. The expressman was already there, with about as much as he could carry.
Mary, as usual, arose to the occasion. She assisted to unpack. She expressed the proper amount of enthusiasm and admiration at each edible as it was brought forth. When the contents had been properly disposed of on every available window-sill, study-table and on the floor close to the wall where they would not be in the way of passing feet, she arose from her knees before the empty box. “You’ll have the spread to-night, I suppose. Some of the girls will be away to-morrow.”
Elizabeth had been long enough at Exeter to learn the meaning of that magic word “spread.” There are receptions, socials and spreads, but the greatest of these are spreads. A spread means slipping through dimly lighted corridors long after the retiring-bell has sounded its last warning; it means bated breaths, whispers and suppressed giggles. Its regalia is dressing-gowns or kimonos with bedroom slippers. It means mysterious knocks at the hostess’ door; a hurried skirmish within; and when it is found that one of the enlightened is rapping for admission, there is a general exodus from closets, from behind window draperies and from beneath study-tables.
Spreads have never been prohibited. Indeed, it is generally understood that the faculty would gladly grant permission for them, if the time and place were opportune. But never in the history of school-life has permission been asked. With permission granted, a spread would not be a spread. It would be a mere lunch—an opportunity to partake of delicacies.