When Barbara awoke the next morning, she lay for several minutes in the pleasant drowsiness that follows deep slumber. No insistent voice within her bade her jump out of bed at once. She was quite sure that to-day she did not have to get up. The sound of feet hurrying through the corridor that had waked her still mingled vaguely with her dreams. She opened one eye a crack to ascertain whether it was light, and saw a brown head beside her on the pillow. Why, it was Doris! What was Doris doing in her bed? Barbara's sleepy eyelids opened in surprise.
She surveyed the room, the tumbled covers of the other couch, the sleeping girl beside her. Had anything gone wrong? Surely something had happened in the night. Wait a minute now - what was it?
Memory flashed its dark lantern full on her consciousness, and Barbara was wide awake. She almost groaned as the pain of recollection smote her. Then she lay still, setting her thoughts in order. Beside her, Doris slept. Blessed little Doris!
A fusillade of knocks rattled on the door. "Up, sleepyheads!" called Migs's voice.
Doris burrowed deeper into the pillow. "Oh, let's not get up yet," she murmured.
"Twenty minutes to eight!" called Migs.
In a flash Doris was out of bed. "Why! Why!" she gasped, as she saw the place from which she had bounded. Then she, too, remembered.
"You streak of greased lightning!" said Barbara.
"We'll have to be two streaks," Doris said, "or we shan't get any breakfast."
They slipped into the dining room just as the doors were closing.
But Barbara had no appetite for breakfast. She took only a cup of coffee; the mere sight of bacon and eggs revolted her. The day, cold and raw and sunless, stretched ahead, a dreary succession of hours, any one of which might bring disaster.
"I thought you were going to take the eight-thirty car home with Gay Leavitt, Bab," said Migs, when she met Barbara and Doris in front of the chapel.
"Not now," said Barbara. "I'm staying here to watch for flunk notes."
"You don't expect any more!"
"It's the unexpected that happens," Barbara replied, flippantly.
"You ought to have heard by this time from everything except Latin. And you're pretty sure you passed that, aren't you, Bab?"
"I'm sure of nothing, Migs, except two flunk notes."
Little by little, tediously, wearily, Barbara put the day behind her. After chapel, she and Doris cleaned house, and Doris proposed changing the furniture about - a suggestion that they carried out after Barbara had gone to the post office to get the ten-o'clock mail. She insisted on going alone, and she brought back only her letter from home and a choke in her throat.
About eleven o'clock Tiny-for-Short came in, threw herself into the morris chair, and mercilessly informed Doris and Barbara that they had made a bad matter much worse by their exertions with the furniture. Thereupon a heated discussion ensued, in which Tiny and Barbara each accused the other of having atrocious taste; Doris acted as umpire.
In the midst of a debate on the proper position for Barbara's desk, Tiny dropped her mask.
"What are they going to do with us, Bab?" she asked, abruptly.
"I don't know," said Barbara. "I wish - oh, how I wish I did!"
"You don't suppose -"
"Very likely."
Tiny shivered.
"Me, not you," said Barbara. "One course flunked wouldn't do it, I guess."
"I haven't heard from Latin yet. But this place without you, old girl -" Tiny broke off abruptly. "I've studied just as little as you have."
"But English isn't so hard for you," said Barbara.
"It's hard enough," Tiny declared. "None of my marks will be very good."
"That's what's bothering me," said Barbara. "If only I had one or two high grades to keep me afloat."
Suddenly Doris spoke: "Why don't you go up and see the registrar now - together?"
"I haven't the nerve," Barbara said.
"What you don't know can't hurt you," said Tiny. "Whereas, if she should remark, 'My children, I advise you to pack your trunks -'"
"Exactly," finished Barbara.
They looked at Doris with a mournful conviction in their eyes.
"I think you'd better go," said Doris.
The leaden day dragged on into another night. By the eight-o'clock mail Barbara received a note, informing her that she had passed in Latin literature, but that she had failed in prose.
"That settles it," she said to Doris, with despairing calmness. "Now I'll surely have to leave."
"Prose is only part of a course,' said Doris. "Don't be too certain."
But her words were stouter than her hope.
Sunday dawned. Nothing could be expected to happen on Sunday - a fact that did not help to shorten the day. In chapel, the preacher talked about the responsibilities of opportunity, and the choir lifted its voice in a pæan of victory. Barbara wondered whether any of the choir girls had "flunked" during the past week! Even the ice cream for dinner lost its customary savor. Books palled; friends bored; earth and sky failed to distract. Restlessness laid hold of her; her temper began to strain at its leash.
Tiny-for-Short and Fuzz and Migs and Nina surrounded her with a wall of stanch friendship. She loved them for it. But even better she liked to have Doris with her. She liked to come home to Doris. Doris had seen her off her guard, and there was nothing to conceal from her. Tiny understood as well as Doris how Barbara felt: Tiny was in almost the same boat with her, so to speak; but Tiny did not make her feel quite as Doris did. When Barbara was with Doris, the ache in her heart grew less. Doris never referred to that midnight vigil; she never broke off a conversation when her roommate came up; and she steered talk away from painful subjects with a skill that amazed Barbara.
Doris would have been surprised at her own adroitness if she had stopped to think about it. But Doris was not considering herself, and affection made her bold. She watched Barbara's face with eyes of love, and what she saw touched her heart and screwed her courage to the daring point. She had need of courage for what she meant to do If there was one person of whom Doris -gentle, studious, conscientious Doris - was afraid, it was the registrar. She would have ventured into the president's office sooner than into the registrar's.
But on Sunday evening she put on her coat, took her muff, and went out into the night. As she hurried along, the stars, bright and cold, gleamed down on her. But she was busy marshaling her thoughts, and paid no heed to the stars. In the house to which she came, she walked up and down the corridor twice before she knocked at the registrar's door.
And then there were callers! A young member of the faculty, Captain Dick, and another upper-class girl were there. The three had evidently been having a very good time with the registrar before the little freshman entered.
It never occurred to Doris that the registrar had any except official relations with the college. She felt small and insignificant, and very much in the way. The purpose that had spurred her on to this visit absorbed her attention; she was anxious and unhappy, and had no heart for the pleasant talk. Nevertheless, she did her best, and the young associate professor and the two seniors thought only that she was a shy little girl who had taken a fancy to the registrar, and who felt constrained in the august presence.
In a few minutes Captain Dick and the other senior departed, and soon the young professor followed them.
Suddenly Doris realized that the registrar had spoken.
"Oh, please," Doris exclaimed, "I - I'm afraid I didn't hear what you said!"
The registrar smiled. "My remark was of no importance," she said, "but I see yours is. Let us talk of that first."
Doris lifted her blue eyes beseechingly. "Forgive me. It was very rude. I - I am Barbara Leighton's roommate."
"I remember you very well, Miss Dale."
"I know I ought to have waited until to-morrow, and gone to your office, but the nights are so long and Bab is so scared. Are you" - Doris swallowed - "are you going to send her home?"
The registrar looked into the eloquent eyes. "Does Miss Leighton know that you have come here to ask me that?"
"No, she hasn't an idea of it. She doesn't know I have come to you at all."
"Then I may tell you frankly and in confidence, Miss Dale, that I don't quite know what we shall have to do in Miss Leighton's case. You see, she really will not study."
"She will now," said Doris.
"So she has thought whenever I have talked with her. Her instructors tell me that at times she has made them the same promise. Her record, you know, is not good even in those studies in which she has passed. She plays, and the trait is catching. It turns her into a germ of unscholarly habits, and in these days we catch even our virtues, Miss Dale, by way of a microbe."
Doris did not smile. "Bab spreads a great many good germs, too," she said.
"As for example?"
"She makes you like to be alive, for one thing. Of course you always do like it, only you don't always notice it. Bab makes you notice it. She is so very, very much alive herself, you know. And then she likes everybody so much. People are so interesting to her. And it makes them like themselves to have her like them. And then they want to go ahead and do something splendid. Besides, she loves it so - college, I mean. Not all freshmen love it in the way she does. It seems as if it must make a college stronger to have its undergraduates care as Bab cares. And that is catching, too."
"The humanities," murmured the registrar, "the uncatalogued humanities. But what about the curriculum?"
"That part will be all right now. Bab is going to study."
"But how will you convince me of that fact in face of the evidence? Remember, I should like to be convinced."
"I can't. Nobody could. You would have to try her and see. I can only tell you what I truly think. She says she will. She said it before she knew that she had flunked. And it is hurting her so, this fright. You don't know how it hurts her."
"Then you believe that her word might this time be relied upon?"
"Yes," said Doris.
"You are her roommate. You ought to know her."
The girl hesitated. "I don't know her so very well. I mean, until this happened, we have never been very intimate. But of course I have looked on at her for half a year. And I believe in her. I believe if she says she means to study now, - and she does say it, - she will study."
"You know that in the past she has not always done what she has said she would do?"
"Yes."
"Though she always meant to do it?"
"Yes." The blue eyes never wavered.
But you feel that now the case is different, that what she says she not only intends, but will fulfill?"
"Yes."
"I hope you are right, Miss Dale." The registrar put out her hand. "Thank you for your honesty. It gives me more confidence in your judgment."
"Then you do mean to let her stay!"
"It is not altogether my affair, but what you have said shall certainly be taken into consideration."
"Thank you. There isn't anything I could tell Bab to-night?"
"I am afraid not. But I will see that she is put out of her misery as soon as possible. One more night - do not think me cruel - cannot hurt her if it serves to fix her purpose."
In Doris's mind rose a picture of Barbara's tortured eyes.
"I am glad you came to me," the registrar said. "Come again, Miss Dale. I shall be very glad to see you not on business."
Doris turned and hurried out into the night. As she hastened along, her heart sang a little song of gladness. The registrar's words could admit of only one meaning. Surely she would not have said those things if the powers had determined to send Barbara home. Oh, if she might tell her! If she might give her one crumb of hope to feed upon!
She forced her happy feet to a more sedate step, and tried to brush the telltale joy from her face. Yet if Barbara had seen Doris when she reached the top floor of Mead, explanations must inevitably have followed. However, Barbara did not see her. Tiny-for-Short had swooped down on the hall, and carried off Barbara and Migs for purposes of her own.
Even though it was Sunday night, Doris could not help executing a few blissful skips in the middle of Number 64. But when Wally knocked at the door, she was absorbed in writing her home letter.
Wally surveyed the busy figure for a full minute. "H'm-m-m!" she said, at last. "Does Bab know?"
"Know what?"
"That the temperature's rising."
"Is it? I hadn't noticed."
"The air of this room is sixty-five degrees warmer than when I last sampled it. You're not so innocent as you'd like to look, D. D."
"What do you mean, Wally?"
"Secrets," said the fat girl. "Secrets. We all have them. Easy to have them. Not so easy to keep them. Better pull the corners of your mouth down a few inches before Bab sees you, or this secret may fly away."
"Wally, you're a wizard! How in the world could you know?"
"I don't. And I don't want to know. Keep your secrets, D. D. Maybe you'll keep them better if you move across the hall."
"I really must finish this letter, Wally. But you needn't go."
"Probably not," said Wally. "Nevertheless, I think I shall. The letter may gain in unity and coherence by my absence. Then again, it may not. Don't forget what I said about your mouth."
Was she as transparent as all that? Doris reflected. But then, Wally was marvelous. Without asking questions, Wally seemed to know everything. She must be careful. Not that she cared who knew that she was staying in her room on the chance of Barbara's coming in and wanting her. It was such a new and delicious sensation to feel that Barbara might want her.
The letter was not finished when Barbara came.
"O Dorry," she cried, "where were you? I looked everywhere for you."
"I went up to Brigham for a half an hour," Doris answered, vaguely.
Barbara crossed the room and stood over the desk. "You don't want to finish that letter, do you?"
"Not particularly. Why?"
"Let's go up Prospect."
Doris jumped to her feet. "I'd love to."
"The crust holds like ice," said Barbara. "Tiny and I tried it this afternoon. Tiny's conditioned in prose, too. Did she tell you?"
They struck out over the faintly glimmering fields of snow to the tiny lake, crossed it, and stormed the hill. It shook them off, and they rushed at it again. Slipping, sliding, clutching at boughs and bushes, they fought their way up. Doris's laugh rang out at every tumble; Barbara's chin was set doggedly.
"There!" she cried, as they reached the top. "They said we couldn't get up here in the steepest place."
"Who said so?"
"Some sophomores in Porter."
"Well, we have done it," said Doris. "It will be a scrumptious slide down."
Barbara did not smile. "Dorry," she said, after a moment, "it's killing me!"
A hand slipped into hers.
"I know, Bab. I know."
"Another night -"
Doris's lips parted. It could do no harm to say that she had seen the registrar, to say, "I saw the registrar to-night, Bab, and I'm not so scared as I was." Just that - nothing more. The registrar had not bid her not to mention the fact that she had seen her. She had simply sent no message. Oh, it was cruel, cruel, to let Barbara suffer so! Doris's affection revolted fiercely. The words stung the tip of her tongue. She clenched her teeth against them. The registrar had trusted her. Would it be right to say even a little? But when Barbara needed so to hear it!
A halting voice spoke beside her: "Honestly, Dorry, - do you think - they'll let me - stay?"
"Yes," said Doris, "I honestly do."
"Why?"
"For one thing, it's your first semester. You entered without a condition. And it isn't as if you had shown you couldn't do the work."
"Maybe that makes it worse in the eyes of the faculty."
"If you should keep it up, yes," said Doris. "Why don't you go to the registrar?"
"Because I'm afraid that if she saw that I expected to be sent home, she'd tell me to trot along." An arm slid around Doris's neck. "It's silly, Dorry, I know it's silly, but I can't. And except when I'm with you, I feel as if I'd go crazy if I didn't know. What is it about you that keeps me steady, Dorry?"
"I don't know, Bab."
"Why didn't I find you out before? Maybe you could have kept me out of this."
Doris smiled wisely to herself.
"If I do get out," said Barbara, "if they let me stay - well, I'm not saying what I'll do. But it won't be what I did last semester."
"Of course not," said Doris. Don't you think that's a good place to slide down?"
"Dandy."
They slid.
The next day Barbara failed to come to luncheon. Doris had waited for her until the last possible minute before going downstairs, and now she excused herself early. Had anything gone wrong?
She knocked, and opened the door of 64.. Barbara lay face downward on the couch under the window; her shoulders were heaving.
"Bab!" cried Doris, in alarm.
Barbara whirled over, and held out her arms.
"It's all right, Dorry. But she - broke me up. Awful goose to cry. They're going - to let me stay."
Doris gathered Barbara into her arms. The sobs sank to long, panting breaths.
"There!" said Barbara, at last. "You're the first person that ever saw me cry since I was a youngster. That handkerchief's a sop. Couldn't help it, honestly. They had to come. What a goose I am!"
"You're not. You're just awfully tired."
"I'm a rag. And I must go to a two-o'clock class, or get a registration condition."
"I'll bring some cold water for your eyes."
When people see I've been crying, they'll think I'm fired. Never mind, since I'm not."
"When did you hear?"
"Migs brought me the note at a quarter to twelve. She had carried it round all the morning, expecting to see me in nine-fifty-five math, and my math this semester comes at ten-fifty. Maybe I didn't hustle up to the registrar's office! They will give me about trial. It's up to me entirely. If I want to stay, I can show it in my work."
"That's all you want."
"I'll have the pleasure of studying this summer and taking exams in the fall. And I'll have to repeat English next year. Never mind that."
"Tiny is safe, too, isn't she?" Doris asked.
"She must be, since I am. I stopped in her room and left a note on my way down here. We'll have to pattern ourselves on the ant this semester. How do I look now? Not so bad? After this class, I'm going to write home, and make a clean breast of the whole business. And I shall have something to say about you, too."
"About me?"
Barbara laughed the sweet, frank laugh that was so good to hear again.
"Dorry," she said, "you're a darling! But you needn't think I'm going to forget this last week and the way you've stood by me."
"You would have stood by me, Bab," said Doris.
"I would if I'd known you as I do now. Thank fortune, it's all over, though! All but the exams next fall."
But that was exactly what Barbara had to discover was not the case.