The long days in the infirmary dragged by and lengthened into weeks. One so closely resembled the other that Polly lost track of all time. Uncle Roddy sent boxes containing everything that his generous mind could think of, to amuse the invalid, and the girls did their best to make the days fly.

At last the time came when, with the aid of a crutch and Miss King, Polly managed to hobble down the steps and out into the sunshine. It was only a matter of a couple of weeks after that, that she discarded the crutch, and on a never-to-be-forgotten day made her appearance, a little worn and shaky still, at the beginning of the Literature class. No one expected her, and her welcome was all that she could have dreamed of.

In the meantime the snow had melted, to be replaced by slush and, as March ended, by mud. Polly slipped back easily into her accustomed place. Easter vacation, spent at Atlantic City with Uncle Roddy, came and went, so that when this chapter opens, spring was fully established and Seddon Hall was a mass of dogwood and violets.

Today was the day of the Faculty tea, to be given by the Seniors, and Polly, Lois, and Betty were helping them make the sandwiches and fruit punch.

“Wah, but I’m hot and tired!” sighed Lois, holding a thin slice of bread in one hand and a knife smeared with mayonnaise dressing in the other.

“You’re lazy, you mean,” replied Betty. “Try squeezing a few of these lemons if you want a sample of real work; they’re as hard as rocks.”

Polly looked up, flushed from her task.

“I’ve an idea,” she exclaimed. “Look! Put the lemon on the floor and roll it gently with your toe. See how soft it gets!” she continued as she cut the rolled lemon in half and squeezed out the juice.

“Bright idea!” congratulated Betty. “Why didn’t you think of it before?” And putting a lemon on the floor, she started rolling it vigorously.

“Lo, if you could see how funny you look,” she added. “You’ve a daub of dressing on the end of your nose.”

“Oh, would some power the giftie gie us, to see ourselves as others see us,” quoted Lois. “Who said that?” she inquired.

(Please remember Betty was still rolling the lemon).

One of the Sophomores, busy at the other end of the table, caught the remark and, to tease Betty who was renowned for her knowledge of quotations, called:

“Sir Thomas Moore, didn’t he?”

“Moore!” yelled Betty. “Certainly not! Robert Burns wrote it. Such ignorance! I am surprised!”

Some one else exclaimed: “Why, Betty, you are crazy. Burns never said anything as clever as that.”

Poor Betty was all up in arms. Like most people that love to tease, she was not always conscious when she was being teased herself.

“He didn’t, didn’t he?” she demanded. “Well, I’ll prove to you that he did.”

At the word prove, delivered in her most emphatic manner, she put so much extra pressure on the poor long-suffering lemon that it gave a prolonged squashy noise and oozed out all over the floor.

“Oh, Bet, what a mess!” exclaimed Polly. “Look at the floor!”

Betty looked and grumbled disgustedly:

“That ends it. I’ll squeeze no more lemons. It’s all your fault, anyhow, Polly, for telling me to step on them.”

“Excuse me, dear,” said Polly meekly, “I meant with moderation.”

As the girls stood laughing around the remains of the lemon, Louise Preston entered the room.

“I can’t get any one to pick violets for me. We’ve only one bowlful and we need loads.” Then as she saw the floor she asked: “Who’s been throwing lemons?”

“Oh, Bet got mad because I put a quotation in Moore’s mouth that belonged to Burns, her beloved,” laughed Mary Right.

“Well, suppose you three girls go and get us some more flowers,” suggested Louise. “You don’t look as if you were enjoying this very much and, besides, we can’t waste lemons.”

“We will go with pleasure,” chorused the three.

“Thanks ever so much,” said Louise, and she added as they were leaving the room: “Please don’t do any arguing while you’re about it, or Bet may step on the violets.”

Ten minutes later the three were making their way to a brook whose banks they knew would be covered with long-stemmed dogtooth violets.

“Ungrateful wretches, these Seniors,” grunted Betty, seating herself on a rock and stretching. “Work your fingers to the bone and never even get asked to come in the back door to their party.”

“Seems to me,” mused Polly, “that all the other classes do the entertaining and the Freshmen do all the work.”

They were still for a few minutes and sat lazily on the moss watching the water gurgle over the stones at the bottom of the brook. Finally Betty exclaimed:

“I have it, the best idea! Listen! Why don’t we give a farewell party to the Seniors?”

“It’s never been done,” replied Lois.

“What of that? There’s got to be a first time to everything, and it would be such a lark.”

“But what kind of a party?”

“A moonlight straw-ride and supper at Flat Rock,” suggested Polly. “Mrs. Baird would let us, I know, she’s such a dear.”

“How about the other girls?” inquired Lois. “Angela and Connie would love it, of course, but the rest—”

“The rest don’t count,” cut in Betty. “We have the majority and, besides, they always do what we suggest.”

“Let’s call a class meeting tonight,” said Polly. “And now, if we don’t start to gather some violets, the Seniors won’t accept our invitation if we do ask them to a party.”

For an hour they picked flowers and discussed the plans.

“None of your garden parties with ice-cream and cake for me; there’s never any fun in that,” remarked Betty, dipping a handful of withered violets into the brook.

“Besides, that is what the ‘sofs’ have planned to do. Mary Rice told me about it, confidentially,” added Lois.

“Therefore you immediately tell us,” laughed Betty. “Well, they need not be afraid of our copying them. Polly’s plan’s the best, if we can only do it.”

“Listen!” commanded Polly. “Wasn’t that some one calling up there?”

“Hello!” called a voice directly above them.

The girls looked and there, standing on a rock, were Connie and Angela, with their arms full of dogwood.

“Come on down,” sang out Betty. “You’re just the ones we want; we’ve a wonderful idea.”

“Great! Bully!” exclaimed Angela and Connie when they had heard the plan. “Why didn’t any one ever think of it before?”

“We can take bacon in jars, and rolls, and broil the bacon over a regular camp fire,” suggested Connie.

“And I’ll make up a new song just to the Seniors. None of the other classes have ever done that,” announced Angela.

“If we don’t hurry back the Seniors will think we’re lost,” reminded Polly. Then with a sigh she added: “I do hope the rest of the class will like the idea.”

They did. A class meeting was called and everybody voted it a dandy plan. The two Dorothys said their only objection would be in case the Spartan were chosen for chaperone. The rest laughed at the very thought and Polly promised to annihilate the first one to make such a horrible suggestion.

Lois was chosen to ask Mrs. Baird, and returned from the office with her full permission.

The day was set for the following Friday night, and Angela was told to write a song.

In the corridor that evening as the girls were talking over the plans for the party, one of the maids appeared with a covered tray.

“From the Seniors,” she explained, handing it to Lois. “For Miss Polly, Miss Betty, Miss Angela, Miss Connie, and you.”

“Food!” exclaimed Betty. “Why, the Seniors aren’t such ungrateful wretches as I thought them.”

“Indeed they are not; they’ve the best class in the school,” protested Lois.

“With one exception,” Polly corrected, “the Freshmen.”

And after a subdued cheer they started in to make short work of the tray’s contents.