"And yet," Berta spoke slowly, "you are going to help Lucine Brett with that essay. And you know how much my little sister cares about being at college with you."

Laura gave a startled jump and turned to run. "Oh, Berta, I had forgotten. She's waiting. I've stayed too long. She'll be so angry!"

"Let her," growled Berta; but Laura had fled.

Meanwhile Lucine when left alone had dropped the sheets of her essay in her lap and planting her elbows on the sill crouched forward, staring miserably out at the brown soaked lawn flecked with sodden snowdrifts in the shadows of the evergreens that were bending before a rollicking March wind.

"n.o.body cares," she mourned, "even Laura doesn't care whether I succeed or not. I want the girls to like me, but they won't."

Tears of self-pity dimmed her lashes when Laura slipped timidly into the room and after a worried glance at the scattered papers resumed her former seat.

"Now, Lucine, if you will read that last paragraph once more, I will try to see where the difficulty lies. It--it's fine so far."

Lucine looked down at her essay, then across at the attentive small face that appeared quite plain when fixed in such a worried pucker. "No," she said at last, "I won't. You are not interested in the essay or in my hopes of success. You offer to help merely because you think it is your duty. I refuse to accept such grudging friendship. You toss aside my affairs at the slightest whim of an outsider, and then expect me to welcome the remnant of your mental powers. No, thank you."

Laura bit her lip. "I'm sorry," she said, "you ought not to feel that way about it. I do truly wish to help you all I can. Please!"

Lucine made a half-involuntary movement to gather up the sheets; then checked herself. "No, I have too much pride to play second fiddle. Your neglect has wounded me deeply, and I do not see how I can ever forgive you. To forsake me for such a shallow, disagreeable person as Berta Abbott is an unpardonable insult."

Laura gave a little shiver and lifted her head sharply. "I have tried to be your friend. I have endured--things. But I won't endure this--I won't--I can't. Berta is my friend. You shall not speak of her like that to me. Say you're sorry--quick! Oh, Lucine, say you didn't mean it and are sorry."

"I am not sorry," said Lucine distinctly, "and I did mean it. I am glad I have dared to speak the truth about her. She is shallow and disagreeable."

"And what are you?" Laura sprang to her feet. "A conceited selfish inconsiderate----" She clapped her hand to her mouth with a quick sobbing breath. "Oh, Lucine, we can't be friends. I've tried and tried, but we can't."

From beneath lowered eyelids Lucine watched the slight little figure hurry to the door and vanish. Then rising abruptly she jerked a chair in front of her desk, slapped down a fresh pad of paper, jabbed her pen into the inkwell, shook it fiercely over the blotter--and suddenly brushing the pages. .h.i.ther and thither she flung out her arms upon them and buried her face from the light.

A few minutes later Laura entered noiselessly and stopped short at sight of the crouching form with shoulders that rose and fell over a long quivering sob. Laura took one step toward her, next two away; finally setting her teeth resolutely she glided softly across the room and patted the bent, dark head. For an instant Lucine lay motionless; then with a swift hungry gesture she reached out her arms and swept the younger girl close to her heart.

"Laura, I can't spare you, I can't spare you. You are all I have. Forgive me and let me try again. It is an evil spirit that made me talk that way.

And, oh, Laura, dear, I want you to like me better than you like Berta. I need you more."

Laura put up her mouth in child-fashion for a kiss of reconciliation. "I like you both," she said, and freeing herself gently stooped to pick up the loose leaves of the essay. "Shall we go on with revising this now, Lucine? It is due this evening, you know. The board meets at eight in the magazine sanctum."

Lucine watched her with a wistfulness that softened to tenderness the faint lines of native selfishness about her mouth. "Laura, I want you to room with me next year. We can choose a double with a study and adjoining bedrooms. It will make me so happy. Do you know, last autumn when I lived in the main building and you away off in the farthest dormitory, I used to sit in a corridor window every morning to watch for you. I care more for you than for any one else. I shall teach you to care most for me next year."

Laura seemed to have extraordinary trouble in capturing the last sheet, for it fluttered away repeatedly from her grasp and she kept bending to reach it again. Lucine could not see her face.

"Will you," she repeated, "will you room with me next year, Laura?"

Laura coughed and made another wild dive in pursuit of the incorrigible paper. "Let's not talk about next year," she mumbled uncomfortably, "it is so far off and ever so many things may happen before June. Of course,"

she faltered and swallowed something in her throat, "I'd love to room with you, if--if I can. But now we must hurry with this essay."

"Well, remember that I have asked you first," said Lucine, "and I can't spare you."

Laura said nothing.

After the essay had been read and discussed by Laura whose critical insight was much keener than Lucine's, the older girl settled herself to rewrite the article before evening. Dinner found her still at her desk, fingers inky, hair disordered, collar loosened in the fury of composition. In reply to Laura's urgent summons to dress, she paused long enough to push back a lock that had fallen over her brow.

"Don't bother me now. I'm just getting this right at last. Go away. I don't want any dinner." The pen began again on its busy scratching.

"Lucine, you know the doctor warned you to be more regular about eating.

Whenever you work so intensely, you always pay for it in exhaustion the next day. Do come now and finish the essay later."

The rumpled head bent still lower. "I wouldn't drop this now for thirty dinners or suppers. It's good--it's fine--it's bound to be accepted--it means the editorship. To sacrifice it for dinner! Do go away. I wish you would leave me alone."

Laura turned away silently. If the success of the article was in question, she certainly could not interfere further. Lucine wrote on, paying no heed to the gong except for the tribute of an impatient frown at the sound of many feet clicking past in the corridor, with a rustling of skirts and light chat of voices. At seven when the bell for chapel again filled the halls with murmur and movement, she only shrugged uneasily and scribbled faster. By half-past she had finished and was re-reading it for final corrections. Then folding it with a smile of weary contentment, for at last she knew that it was sure of success, she set out to carry it to the magazine sanctum.

Down the stairs and through the lower corridor she hastened toward the plain wooden door whose key she hoped next year to claim for her own fingers. The transom shone dark, and no voice yet disturbed the quiet of the neighborhood. Evidently the editorial board had not yet begun to a.s.semble for the business session. Lucine decided to wait till they arrived, so as to be certain that the precious essay reached their hands in safety. If she should drop it through the letter slit in the door, it might be overlooked.

Curling up on a window ledge in a shadowy corner behind a wardrobe she waited while dreamily gazing at the moon which was sailing through clouds tossed by the still rollicking wind. Ever since her first glimpse of the magazine's brown covers, she had determined to become editor-in-chief some time. Now this essay would surely be accepted, and when printed this month would render her eligible for election as the first soph.o.m.ore editor. From that position she would advance to the literary editorship next year, and then to be chief of the staff when she was a senior.

Then--ah, then the girls would be eager and proud to be friends with her.

And Laura would be glad she had not forsaken her in her early struggles.

So far she had been too busy with her writing to make friends and keep them. It took so much time and was such a bother to be friendly and do favors all the while. But by and by she would have leisure to grow unselfish and show the girls how n.o.ble and charming and altogether delightful she could be--by and by. Meanwhile her work came first. She simply had to succeed in winning this editorship.

While Lucine lingered there, leaning her forehead against the cool pane, footsteps sounded from around the transverse; and two figures, arm in arm, strolled nearer. They glanced at the dusky transom, laughed over the tardiness of their stern editor-in-chief, and sat down on a convenient box to wait.

Lucine after an intent scrutiny to identify the two seniors as subordinate editors turned again to the moon, and listened half unconsciously to the low trickle of words till suddenly her own name roused her alert.

"Yes, they're the favorite candidates." It was Bea's voice that spoke.

"If Miss Brett completes her quota of lines this month she will undoubtedly have the best chance in the election, even if she is personally unpopular. She is exceedingly self-centred, you know, and does not trouble herself even to appear interested in anybody else. Her manner is unfortunate. However she is unquestionably the ablest writer in the cla.s.s though little Laura Wallace is a close second. Berta knew her at home and is very fond of her. Laura and Berta's sister Harriet have always been special friends."

"Is Laura eligible? I do think she is the sweetest child!"

"Didn't you know it? Her work has been mainly inconspicuous contributions signed only with initials. Stuff like that counts up amazingly in the long run. She is a better critic though not so original as Miss Brett.

For my part I think the editor-in-chief ought to be primarily a critic, but perhaps I am wrong. Anyhow the theory is that the election goes to the best writer. I'm sorry. I half wish Miss Brett would fail to qualify.

The editorship means such a heap to Laura."

"How?"

"Her uncle who pays her expenses here is rather queer--thinks he ought to see more results of her career. He's disappointed because she doesn't gather in prizes as she did in the country schools. She may in her senior year, but freshmen don't have much chance to win anything more than an honorable record. He doesn't believe in college anyhow and consented to send her under protest. Now he threatens to stop it if she doesn't do something dazzling this year."

"Poor infant! What a ridiculous att.i.tude! But since that is the case, why not vote her in? Lay the circ.u.mstances before the board, and they'll elect her."

"Oh, no, they won't. The board is altogether too scrupulous and idealistic this season to let personal feelings interfere. You're rather new to office as yet. Mark my words and trust me: if Miss Brett qualifies, she will be elected. I know--and that's why I wish she wouldn't."

"There come the others. See that pile of ma.n.u.script. We'll be lucky if we get away at midnight. I only hope n.o.body will ask me to compose a poem to fill out a page; my head feels as if stuffed with sawdust."

Lucine turned her head slowly to watch the group of girls wander into the office and light the gas amid a flutter of papers and dressing-gowns mixed with sleepy yawns and tired laughter. Then some one shut the door.

Lucine was still sitting in the shadowy window-seat, her essay clutched tightly in her hand.

After a minute she rose, walked toward the door, and lifted her arm as if to knock. Then giving herself an impatient shake she swung around and hurried down the corridor as far as the transverse. There she hesitated, halted, half swerved to retrace her steps, stamped one foot down hard, brought up the other beside it, and clenching both fists over the essay fled from the neighborhood.

When she reached her room, she paused to listen. Hearing no sound she slipped inside, threw the essay into a drawer, locked it, and put the key in her pocket. Then after a wistful glance around she stooped to pick up Laura's white tam from the couch, pressed it against her cheek for a moment, and laid it gently in the empty little chair where Laura had sat while listening to the essay that afternoon.

"Laura," she whispered, "I can't spare you, Laura. You shall come back next year, and we shall room together again, you and I."

Without a backward look toward the drawer where the ma.n.u.script lay buried, Lucine gathered up note-book and fountain-pen and departed for the library. She walked slowly through the long apartment, glancing into alcove after alcove only to find every chair occupied on both sides of the polished tables that gleamed softly in the gaslight. Finally she discovered one of the small movable steps that were used when a girl wished to reach the highest shelf. Capturing it she carried it to the farther end of a narrow recess between two bookcases and doubled her angular length into a cozy heap for an evening with Sh.e.l.ley's poem of "Prometheus Unbound." That was to be the English lesson for the next day.