weeks lost from college! My first spring in this beautiful place! It
doesn't mean so much to you, because you're a junior. You don't care."

Lila had withdrawn her hand under the pretext of picking up a case knife
to sharpen her pencil. Now though her lids were lowered as she hacked at
the stubby point, she was perfectly aware of the hopeful curiosity in the
freshman's side glance at her. Lila despised the habit of side glances.
For the past few days she had felt increasing scorn of a childishness
that sought to vary by quarrels the monotony of their imprisonment.
Hadn't the girl learned yet that she--Lila Allan, president of the junior
literary society--was not to be provoked into any undignified dispute by
puerile taunts?

"You don't care," repeated Ellen from her old position at the window. "I
guess you'd rather anyhow have all your time to write poetry instead of
studying." She glanced around just in time to see Lila's lips set in a
grimmer line as the lead in the short pencil snapped beneath a more
impatient jab of the dull knife. She laughed teasingly.

"What's the use of writing all that stuff now? You're wearing out your
pencil fast. Aren't you afraid the paper will carry infection? Or will it
be fumigated? I think it is silly to bother about germs. Oh, dear!" She
began to drum again on the pane. "I'm so tired of this infirmary. There's
nothing to do. I can't make up poetry. My eyes ache if I try to read."
Here she paused, and Lila was aware of another side glance in her
direction.

"My eyes ache if I try to read," repeated Ellen slowly, "and there is an
awfully interesting story over on the table." She stopped her drumming
for a moment to listen to the steady scribble behind her. The little face
with its round features so unlike Lila's delicate outlines took on a
disconsolate expression. "Do your eyes ache when you try to read," for an
instant she hesitated while a mischievous spark of daring danced into her
eyes. Then she added explosively, "Lila?"

She had done it. She had done it at last. Never before through all the
weeks of imprisonment together had she ventured to call Miss Allan by her
first name. A delightful tingle of apprehension crept up to the back of
her neck. She waited. Now surely something would happen.

But nothing happened except the continued scribble of pencil on paper in
the silence. Oh, dear! this was worse than she had expected. It was worse
than a scolding or a freezing or an awful