She was working in the college library one afternoon, reading up for a Lit. paper, so she whispered in answer to Betty's friendly inquiry. Betty explained that she had come to do the very same thing, and sat down across the table from Dora in the English Literature alcove. She noticed at once that Dora looked very sober for such a cheerful little person, but she attributed this to the Lit. paper, which, in Betty's eyes, was a very "sobering" circumstance. A little later she glanced up from her book and smiled across at Dora just in time to catch her wiping away a big tear. Betty bent low over her book again, blushing for Dora and for herself, the unwilling witness of Dora's weakness. What could be the matter, she wondered. Dora had been so happy during her freshman year, although she had had none of the things that the average freshman considers essential to happiness--neither a pretty room nor a pleasant boarding-place, nor congenial friends, nor popularity, nor prominence of any sort. She had had nothing but Eleanor Watson, and that had been enough for her. Now she had even more of Eleanor than before, for the gentler, sweeter side that Eleanor was developing helped her to give more of herself to her friends; and besides that she was up near the campus, in the pretty room that Eleanor had helped pay for. There were pleasant girls at the new boarding-place, most of them freshmen probably, but that didn't matter, so long as they were the right sort. Suppose they weren't the right sort?