Then she would sit looking through half-closed eyes at the sun-dial, or let her dreamy gaze follow the lazy windings of the river, which, far below, took its slow way along between the willows.
As editor-in-chief of _The Spinster_, there was good reason why she should be excused from recitations now and then, to spend an afternoon in this retreat.

This year's souvenir volume bade fair to be the brightest and most creditable one ever issued by the school.

The English professor not only openly said so, but was plainly so proud of Betty's ability that the lower classes regarded her with awe, and adored her from a distance, as a real live genius.
Whether she was a genius or not, one thing is certain, she spent hours of patient, painstaking work to make her writing measure up to the standard she had set for it.

It was work that she loved better than play, however, and to-day she sighed regretfully when the hunter's horn, blowing on the upper terrace, summoned the school to its outdoor sports.
Instantly, in answer to the winding call, the whole place began to awaken.

There was a tread of many feet on the great staircase, the outer doors burst open, and a stream of rollicking girls poured out into the May sunshine.
Betty knew that in a few minutes the garden would be swarming with them as if a flock of chattering magpies had taken possession of it.