and Opera to-day! O-o-ooh!"

Robbie Belle lifted her head to listen. "Berta Abbott, you've got a
chill. I hear you shivering. Hurry into your clothes this minute. I'll
bring you the quinine."

Quinine! Berta shivering from excitement laughed softly to herself. Dear
old Robbie Belle! Quinine on this wonderful day! Listen! That was the
twittering of swallows under the eaves. A squirrel peered in at her
window, his bright eyes twinkling. It was too bad that he did not enjoy
music. But perhaps he did after all. Hark! that was a robin. And listen!
There sounded the full-throated whistle of a brown thrush. The world was
ringing with music--beautiful, beautiful, beautiful! And she was going to
hear Grand Opera to-day! That had been her most precious dream next to
coming to college. To come to college and to hear Grand Opera too!

"My cup runneth over! My cup runneth over," she chanted softly to
herself, while from Robbie Belle's room rose a faint noise of deliberate
dressing, subdued splashing, slow steps, a rustling that was almost
methodical in its rhythm.

"Berta," she announced, appearing with hat set straight and firm over her
smooth dark hair, her coat over one arm, her umbrella neatly strapped, "I
think I shall carry my Horace, for it is a two-hours' ride, and to-day is
Saturday and after Sunday comes Monday."

Berta clapped her hands over her ears, "Go away, go away to your
breakfast, miserable creature! Horace! that worldly wise old Roman! With
the river before your eyes, the beautiful river in May!"

"The next ode begins, 'O Fons Bandusiae!'--a fountain, you understand,"
protested Robbie Belle in injured tones, "he loved the country. I wanted
to read it aloud to you and get in my practice on scansion that way. I am
learning to do it quite well. Listen! 'Splendidior vitro-o-o,'" she
declaimed, dragging out the syllables to lugubrious length.

"Dear Robbie Belle," murmured Berta pleasantly, "if you breathe one line
of that stuff on this journey I shall throw you into the river
myself--cheerfully." She nodded vigorous approval of her own sentiments,
and her contrary hair seized the opportunity to tumble down again in
resentment of impatient fingers. "Oh, Robbie Belle, come and twist this
up for me, won't you? We shall be late for the train. I don't believe we
care for breakfast anyhow."

"Not care for breakfast!" Robbie Belle shut her mouth determinedly. She
walked over to the wardrobe, pinned Berta's hat secure