Tabitha, misconstruing the deep pause, began again anxiously, "I've got the worst temper in seven counties. I reckon it's my name; I have always hated it, but that doesn't help matters any. I am always sorry after I get mad like that, but it is awfully hard to say so. I never know how to say it so the other person will believe me. But I really mean it, Chrystobel. I am sorry I was so horrid to you. We ought to be friends, and then you could help me keep from getting mad, and I could help you not to be such a pig. Will you, Chrystobel?" "Well," breathed her astounded room-mate, "you are the queerest girl I ever saw, and you say the oddest things. I--I don't know what to think." "I don't mean to say odd things. I am truly sorry, and I wish you would believe me." The plaintive voice was too much for the haughty Chrystobel, and with a quick spring she scrambled out of bed and groped her way to where Tabitha lay curled under the covers, saying with more real feeling than her companion had given her credit for, "I do believe you, and I am just as sorry as you are for my actions--sorrier, for I was to blame for the whole fuss. I _am_ a selfish pig, but no one ever dared to tell me that before, so I have gone on being thoughtless and unkind and horrid. I have no brothers or sisters at home to share things with, and I have always had my own way until I've come to expect it from everybody, I am afraid. Forgive me, Tabitha, I never knew before how really selfish I was." Chrystobel's arms had encircled Tabitha in an impulsive embrace, and before the astonished girl had recovered her breath sufficiently for a reply, there was a quick kiss pressed upon her lips, and Chrystobel had slipped away in the dark to her own bed. For a moment Tabitha lay motionless on her pillow, almost too surprised for utterance at this turn of affairs; then she smiled happily in the dark and whispered shyly, "I don't hate you, Chrystobel. I didn't mean all those hateful things I said to you. I was mad and that's why I spoke that way. I--I--love you." "Then I'm glad," came the joyful answer through the blackness of the room, "I take back all the mean things I said about you, too, Tabitha. I am sure we are going to be splendid friends." "So am I. Good-night, Chrystobel!" "Good-night, Tabitha!" A great peace descended upon both hearts, and the two girls drifted away to happy dreams, their differences forgiven and forgotten. Oh, no, they did not become saints on the spot; they were only human beings like the rest of us, and many and frequent were the girlish squabbles that marred the serenity of those happy school days, but they honestly tried to do better, and that is half the battle. Chrystobel _was_ selfish and Tabitha _was_ a pepperpot, and neither of those faults is easily overcome, but thanks to the common sense of the kindly principal and her staff of teachers, the battle was not unsuccessfully waged.