waxing hotter but she made one more tremendous effort to control it.

"Joyce, I told you that I was serious about this studying."

"But so am I!" insisted the wicked Joyce. "Now let's try to work that
out. Let _x_ equal the number of pancakes--" The end of Cynthia's
patience had come, however. She pushed the books aside.

"Joyce Kenway, you are--_abominable_! I wish you would go home!"

"Well, I won't!" retorted Joyce, giggling inwardly, "but I'll leave you
to your own devices, if you like!" And she rose from the table, walked
with great dignity to a distant rocking-chair, seated herself in it, and
pretended to read the daily paper which she had removed from its seat.
From time to time she glanced covertly in Cynthia's direction. But there
was no sign of relenting in that young lady. She was, indeed, too deeply
indignant, and, moreover, had immersed herself in her work. Presently
Joyce gave up trying to attract her attention, and began to read the
paper in real earnest,--a thing which she seldom had the time or the
interest to do.

There was a long silence in the room, broken only by the scratch of
Cynthia's pencil or the rustling of a turned page. Suddenly Joyce looked
up.

"Cynthia!" she began. Her voice sounded different now. It had lost its
teasing tone and seemed a little muffled. But Cynthia was obdurate.

"I don't want to talk to you!" she reiterated. "I wish you'd go home!"

"Very well, Cynthia, I will!" answered Joyce, quietly. And she gathered
up her books and belongings, giving her friend a queer look as she left
the room without another word.

Later, Cynthia put away her work, yawned, and rose from the table. She
was beginning to feel just a trifle sorry that she had been so short
with her beloved friend.

"But Joyce was simply impossible, to-night!" she mused. "I never knew
her to be quite so foolish. Hope she isn't really offended. But she'll
have forgotten all about it by to-morrow morning.... I wonder where
to-day's paper is? Joyce was reading it--or pretending to! I want to see
the weather report for to-morrow. I hope it's going to be fair....
Pshaw! I can't find it. She must have gathered it up with her things and
taken it with her. That was mighty careless--but just like Joyce! I'm
going to bed!"

CHAPTER XIII

THE GREAT ILLUMINATION

The next morning the two girls met, as though absolutely nothing
unpleasant had happened. These little differences were, as a fact, of
frequent o