eyes. Her arched, proud lips trembled. She opened her door, and going
into her room, shut it with a bang, almost in Nancy Banister's face.

Nancy stood still for a moment. A quick sigh came from her lips.

"Maggie is the dearest girl in the college," she said to herself; "the
dearest, the sweetest, the prettiest, yet also the most tantalizing,
the most provoking, the most inconsequent. It is the greatest wonder
she has kept so long out of some serious scrape. She will never leave
here without doing something outrageous, and yet there isn't a girl in
the place to be named with her. I wish--" here Nancy sighed again and
put her hand to her brow as if to chase away some perplexity.

Then, after a moment's hesitation, she went up to the door of the room
next to Maggie's and knocked.

There was a moment's silence, then a constrained voice said:

"Come in."

Nancy entered at once.

Priscilla Peel was standing in the center of the room. The electric
light was turned on, revealing the bareness and absence of all
ornament of the apartment; a fire was laid in the grate but not lit,
and Priscilla's ugly square trunk, its canvas covering removed, stood
in a prominent position, half on the hearthrug, half on the square of
carpet which covered the center of the floor. Priscilla had taken off
her jacket and hat. She had washed her hands, and removed her muddy
boots, and smoothed out her straight, light brown hair. She looked