One would
have fancied that letters came very seldom, to see their excitement.
Margaret Lee received two letters. She did not open either in the
presence of her friends, but went with a swift step and a heightened
color to her own suite of rooms. Two small alcoves, curtained off from a
pleasant little central sitting-room, composed the apartment Margaret
shared with her four years' chum Alice Raynor. Alice was not there, yet
Margaret did not seat herself in the room common to both, but entered
her own alcove, drew the portiere, and sat down on the edge of the iron
bed, not larger than a soldier's camp cot. It was an austere little
cell, simple as a nun's, with the light falling from one narrow window
on the pale face and brown hair of the young girl, to whom the unopened
letters in her hand signified so much.
Which should she read first? One, in a large square envelope, addressed
in a bold, business-like hand, bore a Western postmark, and had the
printed order to return, if not delivered in ten days, to Hilox
University, Colorado. The other, in a cramped, old-fashioned hand, bore
the postmark of a hamlet in West Virginia. It was a thin letter,
evidently belonging to the genus domestic correspondence, a letter from
Margaret's home.
Which should she open first? There was an evident struggle, and a
perceptible hesitation. Then she laid the home letter resolutely down on
the pillow of her bed, and, with a hair-pin, that woman's tool which
suits so many uses, delicately and dexterously cut the envelope of the
letter from Hilox.
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