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"Yes?" queried Jen, eagerly. "I am open to correction. Please go on." Patricia gave her a brief outline of the class and its chief characters, as far as she had observed, dwelling on Miss Green with great satisfaction. "Stop crying this minute, Molly," said Dr. John suddenly in the deep voice he uses to Billy and me when we are really ill or tired. "You know I was only teasing you and I won't let you——".
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"I forgot to tell you my name," she said, holding out a strong, slender hand. "I am Margaret Howes, and I know you are Elinor Kendall, for I saw it on your locker. I don't know your sister's name—she is your sister, isn't she?" "I say, you needn't rub it in that Tom and I are greenhorns," he said, grinning. "Don't forget that once you were quite as unaccustomed to all this magnificence as we are now." "I got my criticism! And he said the work was good! Now I can write to Bruce," and her voice rang with a thrilling note of joy that carried Patricia with her. Then, suddenly as it had come, the storm passed, trailing dark, yellow-gray, ragged clouds in its wake. The light came back and the awed girls at the little window saw below them in the emerald meadows, wide ugly yellow splotches that grew as they looked, meeting other growing patches of swirling yellow water from the lanes and roads. Trees showed fresh wounds and masses of broken branches clotted the discolored waters of the brook. Birds called excitedly and flew exultantly about in the limpid air. The sun flung gay greens and golds. The storm was past..
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