window-seat. They had no pictures or
photographs, no rugs, no tea service--none of the hundred and one
little knickknacks with which the other girls managed to turn their
bedrooms into luxurious little dens. Consequently, they were never
besieged by bands of hilarious callers, and Alma herself was never in
her room any more than she could help. At night she preferred a
dressing-gown chat in Mildred's room, or in Kay Leonard's; even when
she studied, which occupied, indeed, little enough of her time, she
sought a more congenial atmosphere, and Nancy, except for Charlotte's
company, was a good deal by herself. But there was nothing to be done
about it. She could not go to the expense of a new rug and an easy
chair and a new lamp, and that was all there was to it. Alma felt
ashamed of the mute confession of a narrow purse, expressed by the
chill simplicity of the room; losing her memory of their straitened
means amid the easy affluence of the other girls, she became more and
more sulky against Nancy for her rigid economy. She contended that she
saw no reason for it--that Nancy was carrying it to unnecessary
extremes.

With a shrug of her shoulders, Nancy began to rummage in her desk for
her half-finished English paper, and then sat down to it, grimly
determined to concentrate on it, and to drive away all distracting
thoughts. She forgot about the fudge-party, and an hour went by before
she looked up with a sigh, and carefully glancing over her finished
pages folded them neatly inside her copy of "Burke's Speeches." All
her work was finished, and she could look forward to Sunday with a
comfortable anticipation of unhampered freedom. It was still half an
hour before the dressing bell would ring, so she put on her kimono and,
her sociable mood having passed, tucked herself up on the window-seat
with a book.

In a little while the door opened, and Alma came in to change her
frock. Nancy glanced up, and saw in an instant that Alma was annoyed.
She felt troubled. It seemed as if every day they were growing farther
apart. They no longer had those happy chats together which had bound
them close by affection and sympathy. Alma no longer sought her as her
confidant, and seemed to resent her advice rather than to seek it.
Instead, the younger girl had, as it were, transferred her affection
and her admiration to the headstrong and annoyingly self-assured
Mildred Lloyd. Mildred had deigned to pronounce Alma pretty, an