"I do not see how it could be worse! Perhaps, when I tell you, you will feel as the others. If you do, don't stop to explain and give all kinds of reasons for your actions. Just walk off, and I will understand that you do not care to be friends with me. I'll not be surprised. Indeed, I rather expect you to do just that thing--yet, after all, you have always been different."

"Well, wait until I walk off. I may not. Dollars to doughnuts, the 'awful'

thing you have done is partly imaginary. The girls are all right, and I love _some_ of them; but even that doesn't make me think them infallible.

But you sit there and hint about a dreadful deed you have done. One would think you were little less than a female Captain Kidd. There are cold chills running up and down my spine now, so begin quick and tell me everything."

"Last spring, I went into the geometry examination and took my book with me. I copied three theorems, letter for letter, right out of the book. A half-dozen girls saw me--Mary Wilson, Nancy, Carrie Hirsch, Mame Welch, Landis and Min. That same evening the girls met and decided to cut me. We had all been friends."

"I didn't think Mary or Nancy would have done that--meet and talk over such a matter in public."

"They didn't. Neither would Carrie or Mame. I know none of the four were at the meeting. I think each one of them thought the matter over and decided for herself. They speak to me at the table and any school meetings. But that is a small part of Exeter life. They never enter my room or invite me into theirs."

"Who called the meeting of the girls?" Elizabeth asked.

"Min Kean. I am positive of that, because the notices were signed by her.

That is required before any meeting can be held. Then Dr. Morgan knows where to place the responsibility."

Elizabeth gave a gesture of disapproval. She was about to speak, but checked herself, deciding that criticism was not going to help the matter.

Nora noticed her hesitancy, and attributed it to a different motive.

"What were you going to say? Do not hesitate. I deserve criticism. I am not afraid to hear it."

"It was not a criticism of you. I was thinking that Min Kean must have been a different person last term. I could not, although I stretched my imagination to its limit, think of her as taking the lead in any matter.

What part did Landis take?"

"I do not know. No one ventured to tell me and I would not ask. Before we left Exeter in the spring, she came into my room and stayed almost all of the evening. She told me that she thought the girls acted impulsively, and that she had done what she could to have them wait and consider; but she was only one among many. She was acting-president at that meeting."

"Where was Anna Cresswell?"

"She was here, but would not attend. Someone told me that she refused to be present."

"Did Landis ever come again to see you?"

"Very often this semester. I have all the essays and papers my mother wrote when she was a student at Arlington Seminary. People who remember her say she was gifted in that line. Of course, I do not know, for she died when I was a baby. Somehow I never had the heart to read them, although I have saved every one. Landis says they are quite good, and Landis, you know, has some ability in that line herself."

Elizabeth smiled. She was beginning to understand. New ideas burst upon her suddenly. Unconscious of the meaning which might be given to her words, she said, "I'm just beginning to learn that it is not wise to take any one's opinion in regard to any one else. You must trust and be deceived, and trust again, and just go on learning people for yourself.

Did Anna Cresswell never come to see you? I should think she would since she refused to attend the meeting."

"She came twice to ask me to go somewhere with her, once for a drive, and once to walk, but each time I refused. I felt so badly that I had no courage to go out among the girls. It was only a few weeks before we were to go home. I made up my mind to bear it until school was out and then not come back. But I changed my mind, as I told you. She did not ask me again.

But I did not expect that for she is very busy with extra work. I suppose she thinks it has all pa.s.sed away. She doesn't run about to spreads and high teas, so she may not have discovered that I am not among those present."

Elizabeth was silent. She was thinking, not of her companion's misdeed, but of the part which Landis had probably played throughout the affair.

Nora waited for her to speak, but receiving no answer put another question.

"Are you, too, so disgusted with me that you can't bear to speak of it?"

"No," slowly, "I am not disgusted. But you certainly cannot expect me to grow enthusiastic or praise you for cheating. I don't like dishonesty in any form; but I do not know that it is my place to pa.s.s judgment on you. I may criticise that in you; someone else will find something to criticise in me. One thing I am quite sure of. You are sorry as sorry can be that you did it; and you will never be guilty of cheating again, even if you know that you will fail and be compelled to go to school here forever."

"You may be sure of that. One experience ended such methods for me." There was nothing conciliatory in her tone.

"I will be honest with you, Nora. I am disappointed in you, but I'm glad you told me. You may be quite sure this will make no difference in our friendship."

Much to Elizabeth's surprise, Nora, instead of replying, began to sob, and it was some minutes before she could speak.

"I appreciate this, Elizabeth. I know I did wrong, and I have spent six months in being sorry. Yet I do not believe I should be censured so much as some of you if you had done the same thing. That is rather an odd thing to say, I know. But when I tell you all, you will understand just what I mean. My mother died when I was a few weeks old. She belonged to an excellent family, an only child. Somehow," the girl hesitated. It was difficult to explain without seeming critical of one parent. "Somehow, my father never cared much for what mother cared for most. He could not see anything wrong in cards, and wine-parties, and things like that. When mother died grandmother Loraine took me. But she did not live long. Then I went back home and lived with a housekeeper and the servants. Sometimes they were honest and sometimes not. Mrs. Gager took charge of me. She was a very clean old German woman and not afraid of work, but was not refined.

She couldn't even read. I am not complaining, for she was as good to me as she knew how to be. Nothing that I wanted was too much trouble. She was really my slave, and made every one around the house step when I spoke.

"I was a little tyrant. Father spent a great deal of time from home, for he was a very busy man. But he spoiled me, too. I had but to stamp my foot and he would let me do what I wished. He really could not deny me anything, and he doesn't yet. You see, I am the only person in the world he has left, and he thinks I am simply wonderful." She laughed lightly. "I am always amused when I hear him talk to anyone of me. It is nice, though, to have someone think of you in that way. He is wholly sincere. He really believes I'm the brightest and most attractive girl at Exeter.

"Mrs. Gager used to drink occasionally. At such times--I must have been eight years old--she told me what excuses to make to father for her and how to keep Maggie, the second maid, from knowing it. Strange as it may seem, this old woman was my ideal. I never hesitated to carry her false messages, and there was a constant succession of small deceptions. When I was able to fool Maggie, I was commended.

"When I grew older, I met a great number of business men--some of whom were my father's traveling salesmen. And they always made a point of telling how sharp they had been in their transactions. I know now that they were merely dishonest. I do not know whether father approved or not.

They told these stories to entertain me and not when they were talking business with him.

"Father was always liberal. I spend as much as I wish. He never questions how, but gives me whatever I ask.

"The conversation I generally heard among the servants--and I spent most of my time with them--was comments on how well or how shabby some one dressed, and how much or how little money people had. Don't blame my father for neglecting me. He hired the best servants he could, and did what he thought was for my good. I was well clothed and fed; and Mrs.

Gager took excellent care of my health. His business kept him away from home. And, anyhow, men are not like women. A woman would have understood at once that I needed something more than clothes and food."

"I suppose we can't understand," said Elizabeth. "I'm sure I don't. I've always had a mother. She would punish me severely if I ever deceived anyone. My father, too, and Miss Hale are the same way. I was brought up to abhor anything that wasn't honest. But, then," reflectively, "I'll not take much credit to myself for that. It was my training--not me. If I'm truthful and all that, it's because of my parents."

"If I saw no great harm in copying my examinations, it is because I had been no better taught. It was a surprise to learn that every one looked upon such an act with contempt. I would not do such a thing now. Not because I wish to curry favor with Mary Wilson and her set, but because I feel it is wrong." She paused awhile and then continued, "I think I am like the Loraines in that. My mother would have died before she would have knowingly done wrong."

The talk went on in this strain for some time. Then Elizabeth spoke of the telegram she had received and suggested that she might not go home during the holidays.

Nora offered her sympathy. She did not ask Elizabeth where she lived. It was odd that, although they were friends, she never knew until the close of school that Joseph Hobart, the expert mining engineer of Bitumen, was Elizabeth's father.

It was quite late when Elizabeth slipped back into her bedroom. She undressed in the dark so that she might not waken her roommate, but Mary heard her and spoke:

"You and Nora O'Day must have had a great deal to say. 'Smiles' has trotted down here twice inquiring for you."

"What did you tell her?"

"That I was not your keeper. I think she will interview you privately to-morrow."

"Mary, there's something I wish to ask you. At the meeting last spring, who was it that worked up the case against Nora O'Day?"

"Landis. Why?"

"Oh, because. Are you sure? Did she take an active part?"

"Yes; I'm sure. Could you imagine a meeting where Landis didn't put in her oar? Why do you ask?"

"Because I wanted to know."

"An excellent reason," was the sleepy response.

"But, Mary--" But Mary was asleep.