As she lifted trunk-trays, and folded skirts, and packed things in little boxes, she could not help thinking how much pleasanter it would be to spend the morning in Sander's Theatre, listening to witty speeches, or later walking about the college grounds, with Elinor and Kate and half a dozen attendant undergraduates. "If only mother hadn't been sick--" Then she suppressed the thought, ashamed of her own selfishness. At twelve o'clock she glanced around the room with undisguised satisfaction. "There, Angelina, we can easily finish to-morrow. Only two trunks and one box left, and some little odds and ends to do at the last moment. Oh, dear, I must get away quickly--the rooms look so bare." The fatigue that Martine had hardly before admitted to herself, almost overcame her while she was dressing. Bending, climbing, wielding a hammer, undoubtedly strengthen the muscles in the long run. Yet the process of muscle-building is often accompanied by sensations that an amateur athlete might pardonably call "weariness." Consequently, Martine must not be blamed if for a moment her spirit weakened as she looked at the white gown that Angelina had spread out for her on the divan. "I can't go," she said; "I am too tired. I ought to have waited for Lucian's Class Day, and if he is never to have a Class Day--why, then I am never to have any fun. If we are so poor that he cannot finish college, then I shall be too poor to go to parties--or--or anything." There is nothing worse for a girl's spirits than self-pity. As Martine bent over the dress on the divan, a big tear splashed on one end of the silk sash. This was followed by a second tear, and then the absurdity of the situation produced the rainbow. The rainbow in this case was the smile that flashed amid the tears, the smile that made the tears seem absolutely absurd as Martine caught sight of herself in the glass. "What a baby I am! Here I am going to join two of my best friends who have promised me a splendid time, and just because I am a little tired, I feel as if the world were falling to pieces." A cool bath--an hour of leisurely dressing--a few compliments from Angelina--and Martine was herself again. She knew that her mother would not altogether approve of her going alone to Cambridge, and she regretted that she had not allowed Amy to send some one for her, as at first she had suggested. Just as she was wondering whether, if she could afford a carriage, her mother would approve of her driving to Cambridge alone, she heard Angelina's-- "Walk in, please. Yes, ma'am, she hasn't gone yet," and then she recognized the pleasant voice of Mrs. Redmond, saying,-- "Tell her she need not hurry. I can wait." "But I can't wait--not a single minute," and Martine, rushing from the little bedroom, almost flung herself into Mrs. Redmond's arms. "There, there, my dear child--it's a warm day, and our clothes--"