The next day faces of great innocence met Dr. Carver’s shrewd looks. After marking her roll, she made a few sarcastic remarks about pupils who had nothing better to do than play tricks. “It is an evidence of low order of intellect,” said she. More than once she looked sternly at one of the girls who was a gay little thing and rarely had her lessons, but was entirely innocent of any part in this. “If I did not know that this class is not capable of getting even the usual number of lines, and that I would punish the innocent with the guilty, I would give you a double lesson for tomorrow. But for the present we shall let it go. After this, when you see a notice on a teacher’s door take the trouble to try the door and see if the notice has been put up by authority. Under similar circumstances, hereafter, each pupil will receive a zero for the recitation missed. And let me remark that if any of you are interested in passing the course, you can ill afford to have a zero included among grades that are none too high as it is!” And the Cicero class surely had reason to squirm that day. No matter how fine the reading, Dr. Carver asked the most unheard of questions (according to their story), and pushed the discussions of subjunctives until, as Eloise said afterward, they all knew that they had never even heard anything before about a Latin verb, let alone understanding it! Ordinarily Eloise and Hilary were ready for the questions on syntax, but today they only shook their heads at the rapid fire of questions put in the “scientific” foreign fashion of making everything as profound and obscure as possible. With dazed eyes they watched the satisfied way in which the offended Doctor of Philosophy recorded grades after their efforts to recite, “zeros at most,” said Eloise, “and no doubt she had invented something lower, maybe a zero minus.” All was quiet for several days. Then Isabel met Helen Paget in the corridor one morning and whispered, “I’m ready to be offered up again,—two acts at once this time!” She burst into No. 52, where Hilary was in the midst of a theorem, with, “Where’s Cathalina? I’ve got to see her!” “I think that she took her books down to the rocks. She said that Childe Harold’s address to the ocean would sound better down there.” “What’s she reading that for?” “Collateral in Lit.” “My, does she take that,”—and Isabel was gone. Five minutes later a flying figure reached and scrambled over the rocks to a high point where Cathalina was sitting and gazing dreamily out over the lake. Her bright hair was blowing about in a fresh lake breeze, her grey-blue sweater buttoned tightly around her. Once arrived, Isabel was in no hurry to explain her object and stood like a rosy bird, balancing on a rock, her hands in the pocket of her sweater, which was red. “Cooler, isn’t it?” she remarked.