CHAPTER IX
Hester was deep in literary work for the Philomathean paper. She was not attempting poetry. After Helen's criticism she had not the heart to bring her efforts before the public, although she did write in secret. It is a long and hard drop from being a poet to a hack-writer scribbling down personals. Poets are born, while any one can write personals.
Hester had been cultivating the unpleasant little mannerism of thinking aloud or rather in tones under her breath, as she wrote she read. Her efforts resulted in this form.
"'Miss Erma Thomas has been excused from classes on account of sustaining a sprained ankle.'
"'Sustain.' I wonder if that is the right word. Sustain a sprain. It sounds all right. I'll let it be that. If I don't know, the other girls will not know either."
"Hester, do you realize that you are thinking aloud?" asked Helen after this performance had continued some minutes.
"Am I? I did not know; but it does not matter. What I am saying is not private and it makes no difference if all the world hears."
"That is not the idea," said Helen. She was sweet, calm, and decided. "Has it not come to you that I might wish to study and that monotone is anything but pleasant?"
Hester's face flushed crimson. "I beg pardon. I was selfish, Helen."
Helen crossed the room and bending over the abashed, confused Hester, said tenderly, "Do not mind my speaking so, little roommate. If it were Aunt Debby you would not take it so to heart. Then why should it hurt from me? Boarding-schools and roommates serve one great purpose—they rub off the jagged edges of one's manners." She bent and kissed the girl.