Annie Colchester had begun to make friends with Leslie. She submitted to her roomfellow’s ministrations at night, gulping down the cup of hot cocoa which Leslie, evening after evening, presented to her, drinking it, it is true, as one in a dream, her red-brown eyes looking far ahead of her, her heavy brows contracted in an anxious frown. Nevertheless she got into bed in reasonable time, and Leslie saw that her feet were no longer cold nor her forehead burning.
Leslie determined to try for honors in English language and literature. Her tastes all lay in this direction, her idea being by and by to follow her mother’s profession of journalism, for which she already showed considerable aptitude. As she intended to aim at a first, or, at least, second class, her range of study was very wide; and German, French, and Italian literature had to be more or less understood in order to give her a thorough and
complete grip of her subject. But Leslie was a healthy girl; she had been well trained, she had plenty of self-possession, and an abundance of strong common-sense. She had no idea of allowing herself to break down. In order to avoid such a catastrophe, she divided her hours carefully, allowing a certain amount for recreation and a certain amount also for the guiding of her wayward companion, to whom, as the days went on, she became really attached.
As to Annie herself, this was the first time she had ever permitted the advances of any student. This large room at St. Wode’s had been more or less of a worry to the governors, and it was finally settled, when Annie’s time to leave the college arrived, that it should be divided by a partition and let in future to two students. Up to the present no girl had ever stayed more than one term with Annie. Remembering this, Annie, one day toward the middle of the term, raised her eyes from her books and fixed them on Leslie.
“You will be glad when the term is over, won’t you?” she said abruptly.
“What do you mean?” replied Leslie.
“Why, you will be parting from me, you know. I won’t be the constant worry and plague of your life. If I take honors I shall be leaving St. Wode’s. In any case, you are quite certain to wish for another room, and to get it also next term. If I do remain, therefore, I shall be plagued with some terrible student of the Florrie Smart or Jane Heriot style. I nearly went mad over the last one; you can scarcely guess what a relief you are, by way of contrast.”
“Thank you very much indeed for saying anything so nice,” replied Leslie; “and perhaps now you will allow me in my turn to make a remark. It is this: If by any
chance you don’t leave St. Wode’s, Annie, I hope you will allow me to be your roomfellow again next term.”
“Do you mean it?” said Annie, a flash of light coming into her eyes, and then leaving them. “But,” she added abruptly, “you speak of something which must not take place. I must pass in honors; if I don’t I shall die.”