And into this I broke in with something that was horrible to say, I know it, but it was a satisfaction. I said, “Good-night old mud-hen,” and then shut the door. But before I had my own opened, she had jerked through hers, to stand in the corridor and wave her brush at me, “Never,” she called loudly, “_Never call me ‘Mud-hen’ again!_” “I will if I want to,” I said. “You may count in New York, but I come from Pennsylvania.” And then I went in my room and felt ashamed. For two days after that Leslie cut me out of her talking list, too, and the only words I had from her were icicle-hung requests to pass things. On the third, I went into the practice room that was farthest down the hall--my afternoon hours followed hers that day--and I found her with her head in her arms, crying. I felt very sorry for her, and I put my hand on her shoulder, and I said, “Leslie,” quite softly, and she turned away from me for a moment, and then turned to me and clung to my arm. I patted her and smoothed her hair, and I think I made her feel a little better. Anyway, she stopped crying, and wiped her eyes, and asked me to go to Doney’s with her for tea. But I said I wouldn’t do that. “Why not?” she asked in her old, cool, lofty manner and she raised her brows in a way that confessed she was surprised over my daring to refuse her invitation. “Because,” I answered, “you took Viola, and now you’re mad at her, and you’re telling every one how _often_ you took her out, and how _much_ you did for her.” She grew red. I think she didn’t like it, but I had to say it. “I’ll take a walk,” I said. She didn’t answer that, but, head high, collected her music and flounced off. After I had practised about an hour I heard a noise at the doorway, and I looked up to see Leslie standing in it. “You were quite right,” she stated, in the stiffest voice I had ever heard, and she looked right over my head. “I know it. I will be glad to walk with you if you like--” “All right,” I answered, after a look at the little wrist watch father had given to me, before I left, “I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes; fourteen and a half more here, and a half to get into my things--” And I think that day started our real friendship. CHAPTER SIXTEEN PLANS FOR A PARTY By Christmas time I was so well acquainted with both Leslie and Viola, that when, a week before Christmas, Viola called me in her room and told me what she was writing, I told her that I thought she was foolish. “Why?” she asked, as she looked at the envelope that was addressed to her father. “Doesn’t he send you all the money he can?” I questioned in turn.