Betty Wales, Freshman. Dunton Edith Kellogg
that it’s because so many people want us, and nobody will give up. So don’t the rest of you indulge in any crowing.”
“By the way, Betty,” said Rachel Morrison, “will you take some more dancing pupils? I was telling two girls who board down the street about our class and they said they wanted to learn before the reception and would much rather come here than go to that big class that two seniors have in the gym. But as they don’t know you, they would insist on paying, just as they would at the other class.”
Betty looked doubtfully at Roberta. “Shall we?” she said.
“I don’t mind,” answered Roberta, “if only you all promise not to tell my father. He wouldn’t understand. Do you suppose Miss Watson would play?”
“If not, I will,” said Mary Rich.
“And we could use the money for a house spread,” added Betty, “since we all help to earn it.”
“And christen the chafing-dish,” put in Katherine.
“Good. Then I’ll tell them–Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays,” said Rachel; and the dinner-table dissolved.
CHAPTER IV
WHOSE PHOTOGRAPH?
The dancing class went briskly on; so did the Livy class and the geometry, the English 1, the French required and the history elective. The freshmen were getting acquainted with one another now, and seldom confused their classmates with seniors or youthful members of the faculty. They no longer attempted to go out of chapel ahead of the seniors, or invaded the president’s house in their frantic search for Science Hall or the Art Gallery. For October was fast wearing away. The hills about Harding showed flaming patches of scarlet, and it was time for the sophomore reception and Mountain Day. Betty was very much excited about the reception, but she felt also that a load would slip off her shoulders when it was over. She was anxious about the progress of the dancing pupils, who had increased to five, besides Helen and Adelaide, and for whom she felt a personal responsibility, because the Chapin house girls persisted in calling the class hers. And what would father say if they didn’t get their money’s worth? Then there was Helen’s dress for the reception, which she was sure was a fright, but couldn’t get up the courage to inquire about. And last and worst of all was the mysterious grind-book and Dorothy King’s warning about father’s telegram to the registrar. She had never mentioned the incident to anybody, but from certain annoying remarks that Mary Brooks let fall she was sure that Mary knew all about it and that the sophomores were planning to make telling use of it.
“How’s your friend the registrar?” Mary would inquire solemnly every few days. And if Betty refused to answer she would say slyly, “Who met you at the station, did you tell me? Oh, only Dottie King?” until Betty almost decided to stop her by telling the whole story.
Two days before the reception she took Rachel and Katherine into her confidence about Helen’s dress.
“You see if I could only look at it, maybe I could show her how to fix it up,” she explained, “but I’m afraid to ask. I’m pretty sure she’s sensitive about her looks and her clothes. I should want to be told if I was such a fright, but maybe she’s happier without knowing.”
“She can’t help knowing if she stays here long,” said Rachel.
“Why don’t you get out your dress, and then perhaps she’ll show hers,” suggested Katherine.
“I could do that,” assented Betty doubtfully. “I could find a place to mend, I guess. Chiffon tears so easily.”
“Good idea,” said Rachel heartily. “Try that, and then if she doesn’t bite you’d better let things take their course. But it is too bad to have her go looking like a frump, after all the trouble we’ve taken with her dancing.”
Betty went back to her room, sat down at her desk and began again at her Livy. “For I might as well finish this first,” she thought; and it was half an hour before she shut the scarlet-covered book with a slam and announced somewhat ostentatiously that she had finished her Latin lesson.
“And now I must mend my dress for the reception,” she went on consciously. “Mother is always cautioning me not to wait till the last minute to fix things.”
“Did you look up all the constructions in the Livy?” asked Helen. Betty was so annoyingly quick about everything.
“No,” returned Betty cheerfully from the closet, where she was rummaging for her dress. “I shall guess at those. Why don’t you try it? Oh, dear! This is dreadfully mussed,” and she appeared in the closet door with a fluffy white skirt over her arm.
“How pretty!” exclaimed Helen, deserting her Livy to examine it. “Is it long?”
“Um-um,” said Betty taking a pin out of her mouth and hunting frantically for a microscopic rip. “Yes, it’s long, and it has a train. My brother Will persuaded mother to let me have one. Wasn’t he a brick?”
“Yes,” said Helen shortly, going back to her desk and opening her book again. Presently she hitched her chair around to face Betty. “Mine’s awfully short,” she said.
“Is it?” asked Betty politely.
There was a pause. Then, “Would you care to see it?” asked Helen.
Betty winked at the green lizard. “Yes indeed,” she said cordially. “Why don’t you try it on to be sure it’s all right? I’m going to put on mine in just a minute.”
She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the dress. It was a simple white muslin. The sleeves were queer, the neck too high to be low and too low to be high, and the skirt ridiculously short. “But it might have been a lot worse,” reflected Betty. “If she’ll only fix it!”
“Wait a minute,” she said after she had duly admired it. “I’ll put mine on, and we’ll see how we both look dressed up.”
“You look like a regular princess out of a story-book,” said Helen solemnly, when Betty turned to her for inspection.
Betty laughed. “Oh, wait till to-morrow night,” she said. “My hair’s all mussed now. I wonder how you’d look with your hair low, Helen.”
Helen flushed and bit her lip. “I shan’t look anyhow in this horrid short dress,” she said.
“Then why don’t you make it longer, and lower in the neck?” inquired Betty impatiently. Helen was as conscientiously slow about making up her mind as she was about learning her Livy. “It’s hemmed, isn’t it? Anyhow you could piece it under the ruffle.”
“Do you suppose mamma would care?” said Helen dubiously. “Anyway I don’t believe I have time–only till to-morrow night.”
“Oh I’ll show you how,” Betty broke in eagerly. “And if your mother should object you could put it back, you know. You begin ripping out the hem, and then we’ll hang it.”
Helen Chase Adams proved to be a pains-taking and extremely slow sewer. Besides, she insisted on taking time off to learn her history and geometry, instead of “risking” them as Betty did and urged her to do. The result was that Betty had to refuse Mary Brooks’s invitation to “come down to the gym and dance the wax into that blooming floor” the next afternoon, and was tired and cross by the time she had done Helen’s hair low, hooked her into the transformed dress, and finished her own toilette. She had never thought to ask the name of Helen’s junior, and was surprised and pleased when Dorothy King appeared at their door. Dorothy’s amazement was undisguised.
“You’ll have to be costumer for our house plays next year, Miss Wales,” she said, while Betty blushed and contradicted all Helen’s explanations. “You’re coming on the campus, of course.”
“So virtue isn’t its only reward after all,” said Eleanor Watson, who had come in just in time to hear Miss King’s remark. “Helen Chase Adams isn’t exactly a vision of loveliness yet. She won’t be mistaken for the college beauty, but she’s vastly improved. I only wish anybody cared to take as much trouble for me.”
“Oh,