Her hair had been blown in every direction by the east wind and she had been sitting on the floor at the hospital, building a camp fire in the old chimney place, with the grate removed, according to the most approved camping methods. Straightening her hat and rubbing her face for an instant with her handkerchief, Betty made a casual entrance into the room, trying to assume an agreeable society manner to make up for her other deficiencies.
It was five o’clock and growing dark, although as yet the lights were not on. Esther was sitting at a little round wicker table pouring tea and Meg, who had evidently lately arrived, was standing near waiting to receive her cup. But in the largest chair in the room with her back turned to the opening door was a figure that made Betty’s heart behave in the most extraordinary fashion. The hair was so black, the figure so graceful that for the moment it seemed it could only be one person—Polly! Betty’s welcome was no less spontaneous, however, when Mollie O’Neill, jumping up, ran quickly toward her.
“No, I am not Polly, Betty dear! I only wish I were, for then we should at least know what had become of her. But Esther has asked me to spend Christmas with you and I hope you are half as glad to see me as I am to be with you.”
Half an hour later, Esther having disappeared to see about dinner as Meg was also to remain for the night, the three old friends dropped down on sofa cushions before the fire, Camp Fire fashion, and with the tea pot between them began talking all at the same time.
“Do, do tell me everything about Woodford,” Betty demanded. “I never shall love any place half so well as my native town and I have not heard a word except through letters, for ages.”
Ceasing her own questioning of Meg in regard to the pleasures of college life, Mollie at once turned her serious blue eyes upon her other friend. “Haven’t heard of Woodford, Betty!” she exclaimed, “what on earth do you mean? Then what do you and Anthony Graham talk about when he comes to Boston? I know he has been here twice lately, because he told me so himself and said you were well.”
Suddenly in Esther’s pretty sitting room all conversation abruptly ended and only the ticking of the clock could be heard. Fortunately the room was still in shadow, for unexpectedly Meg’s cheeks had turned scarlet, as she glanced toward the window with a perfectly unnecessary expression of unconcern. But Betty did not change color nor did her gray eyes falter for an instant from those of her friend. Yet before she received her answer Mollie was conscious that she must in some fashion have said the wrong thing.
Yet what could have been the fault with her question? It was a perfectly natural one, as Betty and Anthony had always been extremely intimate in the old days, ever since Anthony had lived for a year at Mrs. Ashton’s house. Mollie appreciated the change in the atmosphere, the coldness and restraint that had not been there before. Naturally she would have preferred to change the subject before receiving a reply, but she had not the quickness and adaptability of many girls, perhaps because she was too simple and sincere herself.
“Anthony Graham does not come to see me—us, Mollie,” Betty corrected herself, “when he makes his visits to Boston these days. You see he is now Meg’s friend more than mine. But you must remember, Mollie dear, that Meg has always had more admirers than the rest of us and now she is a full-fledged college girl, of course she is irresistible.”
Betty Ashton spoke without the least suggestion of anger or envy and yet Meg turned reproachfully toward her. Her usually gay and friendly expression had certainly changed, she seemed embarrassed and annoyed.