The last examination which was in Latin ended on Friday at noon. On the Wednesday of the following week the reports had been posted on the bulletin-board, and at the eleven o'clock recess some twenty girls were clustered around them struggling to get near enough to read their marks. Those who were closest called out the percentages to the others who pelted them with agitated questions.
"You got seventy-six in French, Denise. Good enough. Good heavens, Nancy Prescott, you made ninety-two in history, and Charlotte Spencer ninety-four. Ye gods and little fishes, I passed my Algebra—sixty-eight! Catch me, somebody; I'm going to faint."
"Kay Leonard flunked everything but her French," whispered another. "Well, it won't disturb her at all. What did I make in Latin?"
"Eighty-eight. Good for you. Drinkwater doesn't make anyone a present of her marks. I just scraped through. I say, Alma! Alma Prescott, what happened to you on your Latin?"
"Why?" asked Alma, peering over Allison's shoulder, and turning a little pale. "Did—did I flunk very badly?"
"Why, it just says 'Cancelled' after your name. Didn't you take your exam?"
"Of course I took it!"
"Well, there—you can see for yourself. It just has 'Cancelled.'"
A queer silence fell upon the chattering group of girls and for several dreadful moments every eye was turned on Alma, who, white as a sheet, was staring blankly at the uncompromising word written after her name.
"I—I can't understand," she said presently, in a scared, voice. "I did take the examination—and I thought I really got through. I can't understand. Why should it be cancelled?" She turned her big, frightened eyes to Nancy, who, as pale as she was, only stared back at her.