"Oh, she's telling a story," whispered Olive under her breath. She settled herself contentedly to listen."Well, let's settle to business now," said Ruth; "I'm sure I'm more than willing. Who has got a pencil and paper?""I was going up the staircase," continued Bridget. "I held a lighted candle in my hand. It was an awful night—you should have heard the wind howling. We keep some special windbags of our own at the Castle, and when we open the strings of one, why—well, there is a hurricane, that's all.""My name is Ruth," replied the girl so addressed, "and I can't guess ages. Come, Olive, let us find our French lessons and go."
The room was something like a drawing room, with many easy-chairs and tables. Plenty of light streamed in from the lofty windows, and fell upon knickknacks and brackets, on flowers in pots—in short, on the many little possessions which each individual girl had brought to decorate her favorite room.
"Oh, never mind about bed—I'm not the least sleepy.""What about Evelyn?" inquired Dorothy.
Ruth Bury was short and dark, but Janet May, her companion, was extremely slim and fair. She would have been a pretty girl but for the somewhat disagreeable expression of her face."No, my dear," replied the head mistress, in a rather icy voice, "I have never had the pleasure of visiting Ireland."
"This is my panel," said Dorothy, "and these are my own special pet things. I bring out my favorite chair when I want to use it, or to offer it to a guest; I put it back when I have done with it. See these shelves, they hold my afternoon tea set, my books, my paint box, my workbasket, my photographic album—in short, all my dearest treasures."
Small girls are easily influenced, and Bridget and her tribe rushed down the avenue, shouting and whooping as they went.
"Bridget O'Hara!" exclaimed Janet, "that incorrigible, unpleasant girl? Why did you waste your time listening to her?"