"I say, Helen," began Betty, hunting for the hat-pins that still fastened
a remnant of her once gorgeous paper hat to her hair, "your song was
great. Did the girls tell you?"

"Some of them," said Helen, shyly. "Some of them didn't know I wrote it.
One asked me if I knew."

Betty laughed. "Did you tell her?"

"No, I didn't," said Helen, blushing. "I--I wanted to, awfully; but I
thought it would seem queer."

"Well, plenty of them knew," said Betty, mounting a chair to fasten her
wand over a picture.

"Of course,"--Helen's tone was apologetic,--"it's a very little thing to
care so much about. I suppose you think I'm silly, but you see I worked
over it pretty hard, and I don't have so very many things to care about.
Now if I were like you--"

"Nonsense!" said Betty, descending suddenly from her lofty perch. "I
couldn't write a line of poetry if I tried from now till Commencement."

"Oh, yes, you could," said Helen, eagerly. "Well, if I were like Eleanor
Watson then--"

"Helen," said Betty, quickly, "you're not one bit like her."

Helen waited a minute. "Betty," she began again shyly.