She spoke the name softly, but the occupant of the other bed heard, and slowly turned over facing the window, surprised, wondering whether or not her ears could have deceived her.
"Chrystobel!"
There was no mistaking that sound. Should she answer? Chrystobel, too, had passed a very uncomfortable evening, and found bed far from agreeable. Away from her mother for the first time, she was battling with pangs of homesickness as well as with her conscience, for she had suddenly come to realize just how selfish her acts must have seemed not only to the queer little girl, who was to share this room with her, but also to the white-haired principal, whom she wanted to love her. But fear that Tabitha would only say something to make matters worse held her silent when she heard the whispered name from the bed by the window.
"Chrystobel!"
The voice was not only insistent, but pleading, and the elder girl lifted herself somewhat impatiently on her elbow, as she muttered ungraciously, "Well?"
"I was afraid you would be asleep," came the relieved reply. "Say, Chrystobel, I'm sorry I got mad this afternoon. Maybe if I had had more patience I could have shown you just how selfish you were without all that fuss and squabble. Will you forget the hateful things I said and be friends with me? You can have both big drawers and twenty-one hooks in the closet if you want them."
Chrystobel gasped, overcome by mingled emotions. Surprise, anger, regret in turn filled her heart, and for a moment she was silent because the lump in her throat choked her.
Tabitha, misconstruing the deep pause, began again anxiously, "I've got the worst temper in seven counties. I reckon it's my name; I have always hated it, but that doesn't help matters any. I am always sorry after I get mad like that, but it is awfully hard to say so. I never know how to say it so the other person will believe me. But I really mean it, Chrystobel. I am sorry I was so horrid to you. We ought to be friends, and then you could help me keep from getting mad, and I could help you not to be such a pig. Will you, Chrystobel?"
"Well," breathed her astounded room-mate, "you are the queerest girl I ever saw, and you say the oddest things. I—I don't know what to think."
"I don't mean to say odd things. I am truly sorry, and I wish you would believe me."