“Have you your ticket and purse, daughter?”
“And did you put your rubbers in your suitcase?”
“Yes, mother, yes, daddy, I’ve got everything. Come on, Dot. The conductor’s purple with rage at us! Good-by.”
They hurried on board the train, and into the car in which Virginia sat. Then the one they had called Priscilla apparently remembered something, for she flew to the platform. Already the train was moving, but she frantically shouted to her mother:
“Oh, mother, my ‘Thought Book’ is under my pillow! I’d die without it! Send it right away, please, and don’t read a word on pain of death!”
The younger boy on the station platform executed a kind of improvised war-dance as he heard the words, meaning apparently to convey to his troubled sister his intention of reading as soon as possible her recorded thoughts. Priscilla returned to the car and took her seat, directly opposite the interested Virginia.
“If Alden Winthrop reads that ‘Thought Book,’ Dot, I’ll never speak to him again. ’Twould be just like him to make a bee line for my room, and capture it, and then repeat my thoughts for years afterward!”
“That’s just the trouble with keeping a diary. I never do. My cousin would be sure to find it. Besides, half the time I’m ashamed of my thoughts after I write them down.”
Virginia, sitting opposite, could not resist stealing shy and hurried glances at the two girls, because she felt sure that they also were bound for St. Helen’s. She liked them both, she told herself. They were apparently about the same age—probably sixteen or thereabouts. The one who had been so solicitous about the “Thought Book,” and whom they had called Priscilla, had brown eyes and unruly brown hair, which would fall about her face. She was very much tanned, wore a blue suit, and little white felt hat, and looked merry, Virginia thought, though she could hardly be called pretty. The other, whose name evidently was Dorothy, was very pretty. Virginia thought she had never seen a prettier girl. Her complexion was very fair, her eyes a deep, lovely blue, her hair golden and fluffy about her face, her features even, and her teeth perfect. She was dressed in dark green, and to Virginia’s admiring eyes looked just like an apple-blossom. Undeniably, she was lovely; but, as Virginia shyly studied the two faces, she found herself liking Priscilla’s the better. The other some way did not look so contented, so frank, or so merry. Still, Virginia liked Dorothy—Dorothy what—she wondered.
As they continued talking, she became convinced that they were going to St. Helen’s, that they had been there a year already, and that Dorothy had been visiting Priscilla for a month before school opened. She longed to speak to them, but, remembering what Donald had said about Easterners not being so sociable with strangers, she checked the impulse, not knowing how they would regard it, and not wishing to intrude. Still, she could not resist listening to the conversation, which she could hardly have helped hearing, had she wished not to do so.