Alice was silent.
"I tell you what," said Kathleen. "When I see you beginning to help your poor, exhausted mother, and running messages for that overworked slavey—I think you call her Maria—then perhaps I'll do less. And when there's some one else to mend the boys' socks, perhaps I won't
offer; but until there is, the less you say about such things the better, Miss Alice Tennant."
Ben kicked David under the table, and David kicked him back to stay quiet. Altogether the breakfast was a noisy one.
Kathleen went to school quite prepared to carry out her promise to Susy Hopkins. She had neatly packed the little Irish diamond brooch in a box, and had slipped under it a tiny note:
"Get as many foundation girls as you can to meet me, at whatever place you like to appoint, this evening. I have a plan to propose.—Kathleen O'Hara.
"P.S.—You can name the place by pinning a note under my desk. Be sure you all come. The plan is gloryious."
The thought of the note and the plan and the little brooch kept Kathleen in a fairly good humor on her walk to school. There she saw Ruth Craven. She was decidedly angry with Ruth for having, as she said to herself, "snubbed her" the day before. But beauty always had a curious effect on the Irish girl, and when she observed Ruth's really exquisite little face, clear cut as a cameo, with eyes full of expression, and watched the lips ready to break into the gentlest smiles, Kathleen said to herself:
"It is all over with me. She is the only decent-looking colleen I have met in this God-forsaken country. Make up to her I will."
She dashed, therefore, almost rudely through a great mass of incoming girls, and seized Ruth by her shoulder.