But Dorothy, though annoyed at Imogene’s thoughtlessness, which had caused trouble for Virginia, was loath to believe that it had arisen from anything but thoughtlessness. To speak truly, Dorothy was fascinated by Imogene—her wit, money, clothes, and, above all, by her air of wisdom, and her “don’t care” ways. Therefore she defended her hotly. “Of course it wasn’t on purpose, Anne!” she said indignantly. “Imogene wouldn’t do such a thing!” But the silence which followed seemed to show that all did not share Dorothy’s confidence; and Anne, growing more courageous, said: “I’m not so sure about that.” “I’d like to know what Miss Wallace said to her.” “So should I.” “She was plain mad when she came up-stairs, for she slammed the door like anything.” “Yes, and I heard her give Vivian fits for having the window open.” But Imogene kept her own counsel, and no one knew what Miss Wallace had said. Neither did they learn that night from Virginia of her interview with Miss Green. Her strange silence during the conference quelled the curiosity which prompted them to ask; and, when the nine-thirty bell rang, they went home, feeling that she was queer some way but that they liked her more than ever. The world had suddenly lost its brightness for Virginia. She undressed in silence, and was in bed before Priscilla, who sat on the edge of her cot a moment before going to her own, and hugged her room-mate sympathetically. Virginia returned the hug with a bear-like one of her own, and kissed Priscilla good-night, but still she could not talk. Neither could she go to sleep. Long after Priscilla’s breathing showed that she had forgotten indignation and all else, Virginia lay awake, choking back a great, obstinate lump of homesickness, which would rise in her throat. She longed for her father. He would understand as no one else could. She longed for Don, who would call Miss Green “an old prune.” Most of all she longed for her own big country, where, her poor injured heart told her, people didn’t look for impoliteness. And just this morning she had been so happy! Then the tears came, and she sobbed into her pillow. “I’m not plucky at all,” she thought, “because I _am_ homesick, and I don’t care if I am!” She felt better after a good cry, and thought she could go to sleep, but the room seemed warm and close, though the windows were open. She got out of bed, put on her kimono, and went to the French windows which opened upon the porch. The moon had set, but the sky was clear and star-filled. Unhesitatingly she opened the doors and stepped out. From where she stood no trees obstructed her view of the campus. The buildings stood dark and dim among the trees. It was so still that she could hear the brook falling over the stones, half a mile away. She felt better out there under the sky—somewhat as she felt among the mountains at home.