"Perhaps I do not need it," was the curt reply. "And perhaps Doctor Baker might object to a third party reading his letters."
"Nonsense. He would be delighted. Will you read it?"
"No, I thank you," said Hester, proudly. Then she added. "I may be beyond being reached, you know."
Her tone was sharp. It caused Helen to cease from further importunity.
"Very well, Hester. If you do not wish to, I shall not insist." She laid the letter aside.
"It will be the very last time, I shall try to make up with Hester," she said to herself. "She never really cared for me, or she would see that I wish to be friends. But she does not care."
When the half-hour bell rang, the girls began their preparation for bed without a word to each other. Since the first days of their misunderstanding, their politeness toward each other was so marked as to be burdensome.
They excused and begged pardon each time their paths crossed. The same formality was continued now. There was no conversation, although both were talkers and their heads were buzzing with the things they would like to have said.
When the retiring bell sounded, there was a short "Good-night, Hester," and as short a response, "Good-night, Helen."
There were to be sunrise services in the chapel at which every student was required to be present. But before that time, Hester was awakened by voices far in the distance. She sat up in bed to listen. The gray of the Easter morning was stealing through the window. The voices came nearer and nearer. At last she could distinguish the words.