“What on earth are they gaudeamusing about to-night?” growled the Infant; but no one answered her.
They stood looking at each other in silence.
“Some of you I won’t see again,” said Barbara, in a wavering voice. “My train goes so early. Dear, dear Sphinxy,—and Atalanta—”
An odd, snuffling sound caused her to look around. “The Infant’s crying!” she exclaimed.
The Infant threw her arms about Barbara’s neck. “I guess I have feelings,” she sobbed, “if I did try to make things cheerful. Don’t forget me, Babbie dear, for I do love you astonishingly, and expect great things from you.”
Barbara hurried blindly down the corridor, with the faithful House Plant beside her. At the end she turned, and faintly saw the four white figures still watching her. They were looking their last at their beloved companion, the girl whose strength of character and instinctive leadership had first attracted, then held them together, through four eventful years at college.
Barbara waved her handkerchief at the silent figures, and her head dropped on her room-mate’s shoulder as they neared their familiar door.
“Oh, Helen dear!” she sobbed. “How can we ever leave this college?”