“You didn’t!” exclaimed Shirley, in a tone that meant “You don’t say so!” She stopped short in her tracks. “And that was the letter we never got, Kitten. Zeezie had been entrusted to deliver it and she claimed she lost it.” Shirley could hardly speak distinctly—emotion seemed to choke her.
“Oh, can we have it?” asked Sally, her trembling lips telling on the jerky sentence.
“Right here,” replied Jane indifferently, taking a small white slip from her blouse. “I have wanted so much to give it to you, but there never seemed to be a real opportunity.”
It was Sally who put out her hand.
“I think it is for Shirley,” interposed Jane.
“Give it to Kitten,” said Shirley. “We have no secrets from each other now.”
“But Ted and the dance?” asked Judith, not to be put off on that score.
“Oh,” faltered Sally. “Of course we will hand Ted around.” She had not quite recovered from her surprise at the finding of the long lost letter. “And, Miss Allen, please, whatever happens, don’t let anything spoil tonight—”
“I won’t, certainly not,” replied Jane, as the freshmen broke away towards Lenox.
The night of the dance had come, than which Wellington could produce no more momentous occasion. For days the students had been decorating Old Warburton Hall, stripping their own rooms to the point of desolation to pile their banners, their flags, and even their mandolins around the big hall, in artistic and effective settings from ceiling to the smallest nook around the chimney corner windows. Judith and Jane were responsible for the “Bosky Dell” created around the Inglenook. Here the mandolins were cluttered, and about the walls were such artistic woodiness as branches of bright red berries, then sprays of dark gray bayberry, glowing sumac, deep brown oak leaves, and this applied foliage provided the “Bosky” for the juniors’ pretty dell.
All college departments shared the honors of decorating, each depending upon its originality to outshine the others, so that now when all was finished and the students drew apart to decorate themselves the atmosphere fairly vibrated with expectancy.
Under the eaves in Sally’s room she and Bobbie were putting on finishing touches. Too full of youth to give place to regret, these two freshmen were keyed to the full pitch of the big, jolly, gleeful occasion.
“Can you imagine us going, and bound for such a good time?” said Sally, while Bobbie fluffed the maline butterfly from her companion’s shoulders.
“Like a jolly time at a funeral,” replied the other, her tone of voice softening the comparison.
“Dear me, must we really leave?” sighed Sally. “I have been hoping for a miracle.”
“So have I, Kitten, but we have had a couple of miracles lately and it wouldn’t be fair to overwork the fairies. There, you look just like a golden butterfly. Oh, really, Kit, you—are—a dream!”