Maria did not even glance. “I don’t care!” she said, “and how can an old lady be beautiful, anyhow? I don’t dare about anything; I wish I were dead!”
“That,” said Honor, “is wicked! You are a goose, Maria, but there is no need of your being wicked, and you shan’t, either. And old ladies are some of the most beautiful in the world, when they are beautiful! Look at our Sister!”
Soeur Séraphine was thirty-three, to be precise; but fourteen takes little count of degrees in age.
A wretched afternoon. A wretched evening, Maria’s forlorn face casting a gloom over the pleasant reading hour, a gloom only accentuated by Honor’s flame of anger, which still burned brightly. Soeur Séraphine, reading aloud peacefully, looked benignantly over the top of her “Télémaque,” and felt that a crisis was approaching. These dear children! By to-morrow all would clear itself, and they would be themselves once more. But for this poor Maria, and our Moriole, it was indeed desolating; nor was Stephanie less unhappy. A special prayer must be offered for these three.
Bedtime came. The girls separated without the usual merry chirping over their lighted candles. Honor, after a brief but energetic effort to make Maria “cheer up,” gave it up in despair for the moment, and hurried to bed, thereby saving five minutes of the allotted fifteen, of which half was usually spent in happy fluttering and twittering from room to room. Placing her candle on the little bedside table, she drew from under her mattress a square leather-bound volume, and settling herself among the pillows, began to write hurriedly.
“My young life was full of sorrows. Treacherous friends deserted me because I just tried to behave decently. My cheek grew pale and thin, but my spirit was undaunted. My tears flowed like a crystal fountain—” Here Honor blinked hard and thought she did perhaps feel something like a tear in one eye—“My silken pillow was wet with them. The poor thing I tried to rescue was no help at all, but of course that made no difference, and I spurned the others from me with flashing eye and regal gesture. One of them was my bosom friend. I never thought she would desert me—
“Who’s there? Maria? Come in! Anybody else, stay out!”
But Stephanie was already in: Stephanie was flinging herself on Honor’s neck, weeping, begging for forgiveness.
“Moriole darling! Speak to me! look at me! Do be friends! Won’t you, Moriole? I can’t bear it without you!”
Did Honor spurn her with flashing eye and regal gesture? No! she hugged her close, and they cried together, and kissed and “made up” like the affectionate creatures they were.