“No, thank you, Miss Wood. I need air.”
“Didn’t I hear you talking a moment since?”
“Perhaps,” said the weary Jean with half-closed eyes. “I recite a great deal to myself. And this morning I felt able to say a few words to some of the girls who came beneath the window.”
“You must not talk, my dear. It is bad for your throat. Do you feel better this morning?”
“Yes, I think so, slightly, thank you.”
Miss Wood smoothed with soft fingers the patient’s head.
“You seem very cool—a good sign. How would some cream-toast taste? It’s nourishing, and won’t hurt your throat.”
“Oh, it would be delicious, I’m sure. Thank you, Miss Wood. I really believe I’m a little hungry.”
Miss Wood departed to make the toast, while her patient, quickly recovering, consumed buttered popcorn as an appetizer, hoping that cream toast would be agreeable to the white mice. After which, she once more lay down, and tried to look ill in time for Miss Wood’s reappearance. Meanwhile the six behind the lilac trees hurried across the campus toward their respective cottages to do the weekly “tidying” of their rooms.
“Virginia,” said Priscilla, as they left the others to post some letters, “I just know I’m going to have them. I was with Jean all one afternoon when she was hating everybody. Oh, I hope you’ll have them when I do!”