“Has any one in the world the heart to have a grudge against you, you sweet child?” exclaimed Mary Stewart, placing her rather large, strong hand over Molly’s.
The young freshman looked uncomfortable.
“I hope not,” she said, smiling faintly. “I never meant to give offence to any one.”
Pretty soon the company dispersed and Molly was left alone with her two best friends.
“Judy,” she said, “will you please settle down to work this instant? You know you have to write your theme and get it in by to-morrow noon, and you haven’t touched it so far.”
Nance was already deep in her English. Molly turned her face to the wall and sighed.
“I can’t do it,” she whispered to herself; “I simply cannot do it.” But what she referred to only she herself knew.
In the meantime Judy chewed the end of her pencil and looked absently at her friend’s back. Presently she gave the pad on her lap an impatient toss in one direction and the pencil in another, and flung herself on the foot of Molly’s couch.
“Don’t scold me, Molly. I never compose, except under inspiration, and inspiration doesn’t seem to be on very good terms with me just now. She hasn’t visited me in an age.”
“Nonsense! You know perfectly well you can write that theme if you set your mind to it, Judy Kean. You are just too lazy. You haven’t even chosen a subject, I’ll wager anything.”