“Why, where can she be? You don’t suppose she’s sick or something, do you?” asked Priscilla. “She wouldn’t lock the door if she went out. Let’s go around the porch and look in the windows.”
They went into their room, and through the French windows on to the porch, Dorothy following. When they reached Vivian’s room, they found the curtains lowered, though the windows were not locked. By dint of a good deal of prying, they raised the screens, windows and curtains, and stepped into the room. Then they stood and stared at one another in amazement. Vivian’s trunk stood, packed, tagged, and locked in the middle of the floor; her pictures, posters, pennants, and other wall decorations had disappeared, as had the toilet articles from the dresser; only the pillow-laden couch stood as before, though its afghan and pillows bore tags, on each of which was written, “For any one who wants it.”
“Why, why, she’s gone!” gasped Virginia, the first to speak. “Oh, we must stop her! What shall we do? Somebody think—quick!”
But in their sudden and complete surprise, thinking quickly was an utter impossibility. They probably would have remained staring at one another while precious time was hastening on, had not Priscilla’s eyes, roving distractedly about the dismantled room, fallen upon an envelope on the top of the closed and locked desk.
“It’s for you, Virginia,” she cried, passing the envelope to her room-mate. “Oh, read it, quick!”
Virginia lost no time in tearing open the envelope and unfolding the paper within.
‘Dear Virginia,’ she read in a trembling voice to those who listened, ‘I know you’ll all think I’m sillier than ever, but I can’t stand being miserable any longer. You’ve all been good to me, especially you, and I’ll never, never, never forget it, so long as I live! You’re the best friend I ever had. (A sob from Dorothy.) But it is very hard to hate yourself every minute; and, besides, I can’t forget what Imogene said to me when she went away. So I’m going home, and maybe next year when people have forgotten my silliness, Miss King will let me come back. Perhaps, I’ll be different then, but I can’t promise; and maybe, after all, she won’t let me come back, when she knows I’ve run away.
“Vivian.
“‘P. S. Please tell Miss Wallace I’m sorry I deceived her by telling her I had a headache, and asking if I could study in the woods. I did have a headache; and there wasn’t any other way I could get the train without somebody finding out.’—V. E. W.’”
Still they stood in poor, discouraged Vivian’s deserted room, and looked at one another. Virginia’s face was sad from sympathy, Priscilla looked puzzled and thoughtful, Dorothy was crying.
“Oh, it’s my fault,” she sobbed. “I ought to have gone away along with Imogene! I haven’t been a friend to Vivian, and now I’ll never have a chance!”
“Yes, you will, too,” cried Priscilla, coming out of her reverie, “because she can’t take the train after all. There isn’t any three o’clock. It’s been taken off. Miss Wallace told me so yesterday, when she was thinking of going away for over Sunday. The next one doesn’t go till five, and if Vivian’s anywhere around, we’ll find her and bring her back. Let’s not say a word to any one, but just hunt till we find her. The door’s locked and we can draw the curtains, and no one will ever know.”