le to answer like that before?

"Gloria!" again.

"Yes, auntie. Oh! oh! yes, I _did_ forget my mileage book, auntie.
I'll get it this minute. But, auntie,"--Glory stopped at the foot of
the stairs. Her discomfited laugh floated upward to the pale little
invalid--"I've felt of my head and it's on. I didn't forget that!
Good-by."

"Dear girl--my Little Disappointment!" murmured the invalid, sinking
back on her pillows, with a tender sigh. "Will she ever grow heedful?
When will she come to her own?"

Oddly enough, at that moment Glory was saying to herself, as she
hurried down the street, "I wish she wouldn't call me her
'Disappointment' like that--dear auntie! There's any quantity of love
in it, but I don't like the sound of it. It reminds me of the trains
I've missed, and the books I've forgotten, and--oh, me!--all the
lessons I haven't learned! I wish auntie didn't care so much about
such things--_I_ don't!"

It was a splendid September day. The sweet, sharp air kissed the
girl's fresh cheeks into blushes and sent her feet dancing along with
the very joy of locomotion. In spite of herself Glory began to be
happy. And the girls were at the station to see her off--that was an
unexpected compliment. They ran to meet her excitedly.

"Quick, quick, Glory! We've 'held up' the train as long as we can!"
they chorused. "Didn't you know you were late, for pity's sake? And
it's the Crosspatch Conductor's day, too--we've had an awful time
coaxing him to wait! But he's a real dear, after all."

"Give me your books--help her on, Judy! There, take 'em quick!
Good-by."

"Our sympathies go-o with--yo-oo-ou!"

The chorus of gay voices trailed after her, as she stood alone on the
platform. With a final wave of her book-strap she went dolefully
inside. Suddenly the September getting-off intoxication oozed out of
her finger-tips. She tumbled into the nearest seat with a sigh. It
was even worse than she had anticipated.

"I wish the girls hadn't come down," she thought ungratefully.
"Sending their condolences after me like that! I guess I could see
the triumph in Judy Wells' face, and Georgia Kelley's, and all their
faces. They were hugging themselves for not having to go back to the
seminary. Nobody's got to but just poor me. I declare, I'm so sorry
for you, Glory Wetherell, and I think I'm going to cry!"

The "girls," all four of them, had graduated the previous spring.
Only heedless, unstudy-loving Glory had lagged over int