“Miss Wilson has called me impertinent, and has written to my uncle that I have refused to obey the rules.  I was not impertinent; and I never refused to obey the rules.  So much for Moral Force!”

Miss Wilson rose vigorously, exclaiming:  “I will soon let her know whether—­” She checked herself, and looked round hastily, superstitiously fancying that Agatha might have stolen into the room unobserved.  Reassured that she was alone, she examined her conscience as to whether she had done wrong in calling Agatha impertinent, justifying herself by the reflection that Agatha had, in fact, been impertinent.  Yet she recollected that she had refused to admit this plea on a recent occasion when Jane Carpenter had advanced it in extenuation of having called a fellow-student a liar.  Had she then been unjust to Jane, or inconsiderate to Agatha?

Her casuistry was interrupted by some one softly whistling a theme from the overture to Masaniello, popular at the college in the form of an arrangement for six pianofortes and twelve hands.  There was only one student unladylike and musical enough to whistle; and Miss Wilson was ashamed to find herself growing nervous at the prospect of an encounter with Agatha, who entered whistling sweetly, but with a lugubrious countenance.  When she saw in whose presence she stood, she begged pardon politely, and was about to withdraw, when Miss Wilson, summoning all her Judgment and tact, and hoping that they would—­contrary to their custom in emergencies—­respond to the summons, said: 

“Agatha, come here.  I want to speak to you.”

Agatha closed her lips, drew in a long breath through her nostrils, and marched to within a few feet of Miss Wilson, where she halted with her hands clasped before her.

“Sit down.”

Agatha sat down with a single movement, like a doll.

“I don’t understand that, Agatha,” said Miss Wilson, pointing to the entry in the Recording Angel.  “What does it mean?”

“I am unfairly treated,” said Agatha, with signs of agitation.

“In what way?”

“In every way.  I am expected to be something more than mortal.  Everyone else is encouraged to complain, and to be weak and silly.  But I must have no feeling.  I must be always in the right.  Everyone else may be home-sick, or huffed, or in low spirits.  I must have no nerves, and must keep others laughing all day long.  Everyone else may sulk when a word of reproach is addressed to them, and may make the professors afraid to find fault with them.  I have to bear with the insults of teachers who have less self-control than I, a girl of seventeen! and must coax them out of the difficulties they make for themselves by their own ill temper.”

“But, Agatha—­”

“Oh, I know I am talking nonsense, Miss Wilson; but can you expect me to be always sensible—­to be infallible?”

“Yes, Agatha; I do not think it is too much to expect you to be always sensible; and—­”