"Oh! I say," she cried, and there was a joyous ring in her voice. "Here's our chance. Let's change all the girls' washes." I gazed at her with heartfelt admiration. To have passed recently through so severe a crisis,--a crisis which had reduced me to nothingness; and yet to be able instantly to think of such a charming thing to do. Not for the first time, I felt proud of Tony's friendship. Her resourcefulness compelled my homage. Had we been living in one of Mr. James's novels, I should have called her "great" and "wonderful." "Get up and help," said Tony. I stumbled out of bed, and into my slippers. My head felt curiously light when I lifted it from my pillow, and I had to catch hold of my curtain rod for support. The dormitory floor heaved up and down. Tony was already at work, carrying the linen from one side of the room to the other, and I staggered weakly after her. There were thirty beds, so it took us some time to accomplish our mission; but "The labour we delight in physicks pain;" and it was with a happy heart, and a sense of exalted satisfaction, that I saw the last pile safe in the wrong alcove, and crawled back between my sheets.--"Something attempted, something done, to earn a night's repose." Tony sat on my bed, and we talked confidentially until we heard the girls coming upstairs. Then she fled, and I awaited developments. They entered more noisily than was their wont. The law ruled that a _congé_ came to an end with night prayers, after which no word might be spoken; but it was hard to control children who had been demoralized by a long day of liberty. Moreover, the "Seven Dolours" dormitory was ever the most turbulent of the three; its inmates lacking the docility of the very little girls, and the equanimity of the big ones. They were all at what is called the troublesome age. There was a note of anxiety in Madame Chapelle's voice, as she hushed down some incipient commotion. "I must have perfect silence in the dormitory," she said. "You have talked all day; now you must go quietly to bed. Do you hear me, children? Silence!" There was a lull, and then--I knew it must soon come--a voice from the far end of the room. "I have thirty-seven's clothes" (everything was marked with our school numbers), "instead of mine." "Mary Aylmer, be quiet!" commanded Madame Chapelle. "But, Madame, I tell you truly, I have thirty-seven's clothes. Who is thirty-seven?" "I am," cried another voice,--Eloise Didier's. "But I haven't got your clothes, Mary Aylmer. I've got Alice Campbell's. Here, Alice,--twenty-two,--come take your things." "Who is thirty-three? Ruffled night-gown with two buttons off. Oh, shame!" sang out Marie jubilantly. "Children, will you be silent!" said Madame Chapelle, angry and bewildered. "What do you mean by such behaviour?" "Forty-two's stockings want darning," said a reproachful voice. It was very probable, for I was forty-two. "So do thirty-eight's."