lay Reba's Bible, half-way up in one of the two neat pyramids of books.
"Make an excuse and worm yourself into that queer little Miss Jerome's room sometime," Miss Bartholomew, the gymnasium instructor, had one day laughingly told Miss Park, who held the position of Social Secretary at the Women's Alliance. "It's like stepping into a corner of your dear little old grandmother's room, 'way off in some little quiet, tucked-away New England village. I'd love to see the house she stepped out of."
"I wish I could make her out," Miss Park replied, with a sigh. "She puzzles me. No job, and here now for over six weeks."
"I know," agreed Miss Bartholomew. "You wouldn't think a little prim old maid like that would care about drills and athletic stunts, but she hasn't missed an evening. At first I couldn't get her elbows away from her sides. She was held in and restrained all over. I had to teach her even how to run. It's amusing to watch her on the track, going at it so earnestly for a solid half-hour after class, and appealing to me every few minutes to know if it's right. And really, in the tank she's little less than a martyr—petrified by water, really, I believe, but determined to overcome her fright. The first time I made her jump off the diving-board, she looked a veritable Joan of Arc at the stake. But she jumped!"
"It's the same with dancing," took up Miss Park. "She has been as determined to master the art as if there were a degree attached to it. She has joined Ida's folk-dancing class too. At first I thought the poor little thing must be in poor health, and that a
