Mabel said, “Come in,” and Annie entered.
“Well, May,” she cried, “has any light dawned on you?”
“Light dawned on me?” replied Mabel in a tone almost of passion. “None whatsoever. I am just in pitch darkness. I can’t write a word that any one will care to listen to. I never could, as you very well know, and certainly am less capable than ever now of doing so. The very thought of all that hangs on my efforts quite unnerves me. I shall write twaddle, my dear Annie; in fact, I don’t think I’ll write at all.”
“Oh, but you must; that would seem very bad, and make your aunt so angry. She might think that you had refused to do so out of temper, and might keep you two years at school instead of one.”
“Do you think so, really? That would be too appalling.”
“I am not at all sure; from what you tell me of her character, I think it would be extremely likely.”
“Well, I will do something. For that matter, I have done something. Can’t I send it in?”
“No, no!” said Annie. “You showed it to me, and I never read such rubbish in all my life. Now, look here, Mabel. You shall write a paper, and it must be the very best paper you can put together; and I will help you all I can.”
“But there is no time.”
“Yes, there is. We can do it to-night.”