“It isn’t right!” Mrs. Albright’s comfortable face took on stern, troubled lines.

“I’d go to the florist and find out,” declared Miss Crilly.

“There’s no name on the box.”  Miss Sterling drew a deep breath, and indignation flushed her pale cheeks.

“I did suppose we could have what belonged to us, even here!  Things grow worse every day.  Boiled tripe for dinner—­ugh!” Miss Castlevaine’s face wrinkled with repugnance.

“And only potatoes to go with it,” sighed Mrs. Albright.  “It’s too bad we can’t have green vegetables and fruit—­now, in the season.”

“I heard something yesterday,” resumed Miss Castlevaine, “that I guess you won’t like—­I don’t know what we’re coming to!  Miss Major got it in a roundabout way through one of the managers, and it may not be true; but they say they’re going to cut out our Wednesday pudding and our Sunday pie!” Her little blue eyes glared at her listeners.

Juanita Sterling dropped back in her chair.  “What next!” she ejaculated.

“They’ll be keeping us on mackerel and corned beef yet!” snapped Miss Castlevaine.  “As if we didn’t pay enough when we came here to insure us first-class board for the rest of our lives’ I gave them three thousand dollars—­I was a fool to do it!—­and I have been here only two years!  If they keep that woman much longer—!” The flashing eyes and set lips finished the sentence.

“Well, ain’t that great!” cried Miss Crilly.  “I didn’t bring any such pile as you did, Miss Castlevaine, but that isn’t to the point!  They’ve got more money ’n they know what to do with!  What they saving their old barrelful for, anyway?  Not a scrap o’ dessert from one week’s end to another—­goodness gracious me!”

CHAPTER VIII

WAITING TO BE THANKED

Juanita Stirling sat alone with her roses, trying to think it all out.  The other ladies were down in the parlor, where Mrs. Nobbs was reading aloud; but to-night Egyptian archaeology had no charm for the possessor of the pink roses.  How could she wander through prehistoric scenes while somebody was waiting to be thanked!  Somebody—­but who?  The roses knew!  Yet they would not tell!  Little quivers of light fluttered in and out of their alluring hearts, almost as if they said, “We are telling!  We are telling!  Only you will not understand!” The woman gazed wistfully at them—­and sighed.  The secret of the roses held her through the long, still hours of the evening.  What possible reason could the superintendent have had for withholding the name, unless—!  She shook her head and sternly chided her cheeks for rivaling the roses.  If only Polly hadn’t—­but was it Polly?  Had not that name appeared before Polly spoke?  She clinched her teeth in scorn for herself. “‘There’s no fool like an old fool,’” she muttered contemptuously.  No doubt it was Georgiana Lake.  To-morrow she would write Mrs. Lake a note of thanks.  There would be no risk in that.  Yes, she would do it!  She would be a fool no longer!  And if the roses chuckled over her decision she never knew it.