"You needn't fret," giggled Flossie. "Your feather's aren't a bit too fine." But Flossie's eyes were red, and she plainly had been crying. "I _hate_ the old books!" she said, suddenly. "Pa, why do I have to go to school any more?" "Because I am determined you shall, young lady," said Mr. Starkweather, firmly. "We all have to learn." "Hortense doesn't go." "But you are not Hortense's age," returned her father, coolly. "Remember that. And I must have better reports of your conduct in school than have reached me lately," he added. Flossie sulked over the rest of her dinner. Helen, going up slowly to her room later, saw the door of her youngest cousin's room open, and glancing in, beheld Flossie with her head on her book, crying hard. Each of these girls had a beautiful room of her own. Flossie's was decorated in pink, with chintz hangings, a lovely bed, bookshelves, a desk of inlaid wood, and everything to delight the eye and taste of any girl. Beside the common room Helen occupied, this of Flossie's was a fairy palace. But Helen was naturally tender-hearted. She could not bear to see the younger girl crying. She ventured to step inside the door and whisper: "Flossie?" Up came the other's head, her face flushed and wet and her brow a-scowl. "What do _you_ want?" she demanded, quickly. "Nothing. Unless I can help you. And if so, _that_ is what I want," said the ranch girl, softly. "Goodness me! _You_ can't help me with algebra. What do I want to know higher mathematics for? I'll never have use for such knowledge." "I don't suppose we can ever learn _too_ much," said Helen, quietly. "Huh! Lots you know about it. You never were driven to school against your will." "No. Whenever I got a chance to go I was glad." "Maybe I'd be glad, too, if I lived on a ranch," returned Flossie, scornfully. Helen came nearer to the desk and sat down beside her. "You don't look a bit pretty with your eyes all red and hot. Crying isn't going to help," she said, smiling. "I suppose not," grumbled Flossie, ungrateful of tone. "Come, let me get some water and cologne and bathe your face." Helen jumped up and went to the tiny bathroom. "Now, I'll play maid for you, Flossie." "Oh, all right," said the younger girl. "I suppose, as you say, crying isn't going to help." "Not at all. No amount of tears will solve a problem in algebra. And you let me see the questions. You see," added Helen, slowly, beginning to bathe her cousin's forehead and swollen eyes, "we once had a very fine school-teacher at the ranch. He was a college professor. But he had weak lungs and he came out there to Montana to rest." "That's good!" murmured Flossie, meaning bathing process, for she was not listening much to Helen's remarks. "I knew it would make you feel better. But now, let me see these algebra problems. I took it up a little when--when Professor Payton was at the ranch." "You didn't!" cried Flossie, in wonder. "Let me see them," pursued her cousin, nodding.