“It’s a ripping thing for the ‘Squib,’” Molly heard another girl whisper to her neighbor.
She knew she would be the subject of an everlasting joke, but she hoped to live it down by learning immediately everything there was to know about Wellington, and becoming so wise that nobody would ever accuse her again of being a green freshman.
Mrs. Maynard, the matron, came in to see if she was all right. She was a motherly little woman, with a gentle manner, and Molly felt a leaning toward her at once.
“I hope you’ll feel comfortable in your new quarters,” said Mrs. Maynard. “You’ll have plenty of sunshine and a good deal more space when you get your trunks unpacked, although the things inside a trunk do sometimes look bigger than the trunk.”
Molly smiled. There was not much in her trunk to take up space, most certainly. She had nicknamed herself when she packed it “Molly Few Clothes,” and she was beginning to wonder if even those few would pass muster in that crowd of well-dressed girls.
“Oh, have the trunks really come, Miss Oldham?” she asked her roommate.
“Yes, just before supper. I’ve started unpacking mine.”
“Thank goodness. I’ve got an old ham and a hickory nut cake and some beaten biscuits and pickles and blackberry jam in mine, and I can hardly wait to see if anything has broken loose on my clothes, such as they are.”
Nance Oldham opened her eyes wide.
“I’ve always heard that Southern people were pretty strong on food,” she said, “and this proves it.”