One person had struggled to influence Louise’s unfortunate estimate of herself, her closest friend, Dorothy McClain.
Having finished her speech, Louise was leaning over, resting her head upon her hand, appearing more discouraged than the other girls considered necessary under the circumstances.
Louise’s features were large, her complexion pallid; she had only two claims to beauty, her curious light-gray eyes and copper-red hair. Ordinarily she wore unsuitable clothes, so that she looked better in her Scout uniform than in other costumes.
“Nonsense, Ouida, we are not going at things in any such spirit!” Dorothy remarked with the good sense and directness that distinguished her.
Teresa Peterson looked relieved.
She and Louise were not congenial; it was impossible they should be with such totally different temperaments.
Teresa was exceptionally pretty and pleasure loving. She could see nothing to admire in Louise’s appearance or in her serious disposition. Her philosophy of life, although Teresa would never have appreciated that she possessed a philosophy, and would have disliked the name, was never to trouble so long as it was possible to enjoy oneself. She had pretty, soft manners and was gentle and affectionate, save when any one opposed a strong desire on her part.
If the Girl Scouts realized that Teresa was unlike the rest of them, they perhaps expected less of her. Several of the older girls, particularly Joan Peters, had a special affection for Teresa and a wish to shelter her from criticism or difficulty.
“I cannot see why it is our fault that we have been bored and cross since Christmas,” she now remarked plaintively. “How can we expect anything else after the lovely times we had then, the dances and sleigh rides and skating party and the queer Christmas Eve entertainment at Miss Frean’s when we were made Knights of something or other and recited all sorts of funny poetry?”
Perhaps the laughter following Teresa’s speech was better for the group of Girl Scouts than Louise’s introspection.