Now something else fine and unusual was about to happen, and Betty had offered to share a secret with her.

A little shiver of pleasure passed over her at the thought.

This was so delightfully intimate and confidential, almost like taking one of those "little journeys to the homes of famous people." As Betty turned the page, Dora felt with another thrill that that was the hand which had written the poem on "Friendship," which all the girls had raved over.

She herself knew it by heart, and she knew of at least six copies which, cut from the school magazine in which it had been published, were stuck in the frames of as many mirrors.
And that was the hand that had written the junior class song and the play that the juniors gave on Valentine night.

If reports were true that was also the hand which would write the valedictory next year, and which was now secretly at work upon a book which would some day place its owner in the ranks with George Eliot and Thackeray.
While she still gazed in a sort of fascination at the daintily manicured pink-tipped fingers, Betty looked up with a radiant face.