All eyes were turned in surprise upon Elsie, as she stood before them, very pale, but with a look of settled determination on her face. Twice she tried to speak, and stopped, and they could all see that she was very nervous. Then the words came, very low, but sufficiently audible to reach every ear in the room.
"Girls," she began, looking straight before her, and clasping and unclasping her hands as she spoke, "girls and boys, too, for I want you all to hear. I have a confession to make. It's about something that happened at the first meeting of this Club—the night we were all initiated. That poem I wrote—some of you thought it was the best, and you made me president—it—it wasn't original; I learned it when I was a little girl, but I thought nobody would recognize it. I didn't mean to cheat at first, but I couldn't make up anything that I thought was good enough, and I hated to have the other poems better than mine. I haven't anything more to say except that I've been ashamed of myself ever since, and I can't have you go on thinking me cleverer than I am, any longer." And then, without waiting to note the effect of her startling announcement, Elsie turned and fled.
Marjorie and Barbara found her upstairs in the dressing-room, crying as if her heart would break. Neither of them said a word, but Marjorie put her arms round her cousin's neck and hugged her.
"It Takes a Lot of Pluck to Get up and Say a Thing like that."—Page 355.
"What are they saying about me?" whispered Elsie, burying her face on Marjorie's shoulder. "Do they all despise me?"
"Not a bit of it," declared Marjorie, reassuringly. "They're all saying how plucky it was of you to confess. Lulu says she never liked you so much before in her life. As for me, I'm so proud of you I don't know what to do. Oh, Elsie darling, I'm so glad you did it!"
"It was you who made me do it," sobbed Elsie, clinging to her cousin. "You were so splendid about it all. You knew, and yet you never told any one, not even Papa when he was provoked with you, because you wouldn't explain what the trouble between us was. Your brother knew too, Babs, and he has never said a word, but I know how he has despised me. I've despised myself too—oh, how I have despised myself! I've been selfish and conceited all my life, and I didn't care much, but one can't help feeling mean and ashamed beside girls like you, and brave, wonderful women like Aunt Jessie. I don't believe I've got one real friend in the world."
"You've got lots," protested Marjorie and Barbara both together. "Just come downstairs and see if you haven't."
It was a very quiet, subdued Elsie who reëntered the drawing-room, escorted by her two staunch friends, but the welcome she received was such that, before the evening was over, she found herself able to smile, and take a passing interest in life once more. Elsie had many faults, but she was not a bad girl, and she had learned a lesson that would last her all her life. One of the first to approach her and hold out his hand, was Beverly Randolph.