Visions of her father--old, silent, unforgiving--passed before her eyes; her mother--patient, long-suffering--who had made one sacrifice after another to keep her in this school, far beyond her means. The vision of those faces settled Joy's mind--made a coward of her. Her disgrace should not touch them. She would not acknowledge the book, no matter what came! Blue Bonnet Ashe could disclaim any knowledge of it. She was innocent--could prove that she was. If she, herself, kept still, the storm would soon blow over. No one could prove the book was hers. No one had seen it in her possession. She could not explain--now. She had incriminated herself by telling an untruth. A lie, in the eyes of Miss North, was a serious offence, and in a Senior--intolerable--unforgivable--a malicious, willful lie that injured another.... The gong sounded for dinner. Joy hesitated. She hated to meet Miss Martin, at whose table she sat. She thought she would not go to dinner. On second thought she knew she must--that she was in a difficult position and must play the game to the end. She went into the bathroom and bathed her flushed face in cold water, straightened her tumbled hair, resumed her usual attitude of indifference to the world in general, and going down to the dining-room slipped into her place quietly. CHAPTER X UNDER A CLOUD Directly across the hall from Blue Bonnet Ashe roomed two girls--Angela Dare and Patricia Payne, the latter better known to her schoolmates as "Patty." Angela Dare was the pride and hope of the school. She was unusually gifted in English, and gave promise of doing something brilliant in verse. She had the face and temperament of a poet--even the name--if names count for anything; for, as Ruth Biddle once said, "a lovely poem wouldn't look half so good with Susie Simpkins signed to it as Angela Dare!" Angela had large blue eyes, as serene as a summer's day, and oddly translucent. Her head with its crown of yellow hair was charming in contour, and her face, ivory in coloring, gave her an ethereal, lily-like appearance, distinctive and unusual. She lived in a world of her own, which was satisfying and all absorbing. It was Deborah Watts, practical and efficient, who one day found Angela in the heart of the Boston shopping district, wending her way through the busy throng, eyes heavenward, her gaze transfixed and rapturous. "Angela--Angela Dare!" Deborah Watts said, "what are you doing? You'll be killed in all this traffic. Look where you're going. Have you any money? Do you know where you are?" To all of these questions Angela shook her head in a dazed fashion and burst into tears, because Deborah had spoiled a poem upon which she had been working for hours. "I almost had it, Deborah, and it was so good. Quite the best thing I've done this year. It went like this:" Again the gaze sought the skies but the lips faltered.