At the Gordon school all was excitement. Boys in white trousers waited impatiently at the gates, as the automobiles and carriages approached, to greet their friends and conduct them to the brilliantly lighted and beautifully decorated gymnasium. This annual dance on Washington’s Birthday was the one real social function, outside Commencement, allowed at Gordon, and its importance was greatly felt by the young hosts. Priscilla, strangely shivery, tried to reply easily to Carver’s remarks, as they went up the walk toward the gymnasium. “Isn’t it lucky you didn’t catch those things? I was dead scared you would when you wrote me.” “Yes, it’s—it is lucky.” “My! Your cheeks are red, Priscilla. Just the way they used to be after swimming. Say, but you’re looking great!” “Am I?” “Isn’t Bob Stuart a corker? He decorated the whole gym. Never saw flags look any better, did you?” “No, it’s awfully pretty. I—I think I’ll sit down, Carver, till dancing begins.” “Sure. Of course. I’ll run and get Bob. He has three with you. Excuse me just a moment.” How Priscilla ever managed to dance the ten dances before intermission, she never knew. Her cheeks grew redder, her eyes brighter, her poor head spun as though never-ending wheels, eternally wound up, were to whirl around forever. Sometimes the lights of the gymnasium blurred, and something sang in her ears; but still she smiled and moved her feet. At the end of each dance when her charge was returned to her to await the arrival of her partner for the next, Miss Wallace grew more and more anxious. “Priscilla dear, I’m sure you’re ill. What is it?” “Really, Miss Wallace, I’ve just a headache. Oh, don’t make me stop, please!” But at intermission—that blessed time when one could rest and close her eyes when nobody looked her way—at intermission while they sat in Carver’s study and ate ice-cream and cake, Priscilla all at once gave a little worn-out sigh, and fainted quite away. Poor Carver Standish III was all consternation. Had he tired her out? Hadn’t there been enough air in the room? Had he done anything he shouldn’t? He plied Miss Wallace with anxious questionings while a guest, who by good fortune happened to be a doctor, bent over Priscilla. But Priscilla, coming to herself just then, answered his questions. “No, you haven’t done a thing, Carver. It’s the German Measles. They wouldn’t stay frozen in!” Then, to the greatly amused doctor, and to the greatly disturbed Miss Wallace, and the greatly relieved Carver, the patient told in a weak little voice of how they had tried two weeks ago to steam them out; and how, when they had unexpectedly come that morning, they had, with doubtful logic, striven to freeze them in. The doctor, though he looked grave, laughed as though he never could stop; and it all ended by his taking her and Miss Wallace home in his own machine, leaving Jean to be chaperoned by her aunt, and a sympathetic but indignant host, who thought they ought to let him go along.