“Log jam,” Kit put in.  “That’s what he meant, log jam of laziness.  Have you discovered all these shelves in your wardrobe?  I’d take off those doors and hang lovely velvety curtains in front and make a bookcase out of it.”

“Will you gaze upon her Chinese tea cupboard,” exclaimed Norma, standing before the high black box, with one middle shelf, and little green and gold curtains hung before the tea set.  “Where did you purloin that, Peg?”

“Peter gave it to me for fifty cents.  It used to be a dumb waiter, and I painted it black myself.  Isn’t it beautiful?  Have you seen Charity’s room?  Wait.”  Peggy darted out of her door and across the hall.  On the door opposite a card bore the legend in large black letters: 

    “Keep out.” 
    “Study hour.”

“That’s perfectly ridiculous,” she said, tapping just the same.  “Nobody’s studying to-day.  Let us in, Charity.”

A sound of scraping over the floor, and muffled giggles came to the waiting ones in the hall, then the door was thrown wide, and Kit caught her first glimpse of Charity Parks, the best loved girl at Hope.  She was about seventeen, but a short, roly-poly type, with curly rumpled hair and gray eyes that never seemed to keep from mirth.  There were five other girls with her, and spread over the couch, chairs, and table were writing material and papers.

“We’re frightfully busy, girls,” Charity said, discouragingly.  “What do you want?”

“Just to look at your room.  Isn’t it inspiring, Kit?  This is Kit Robbins, Charity.”

“Hope you’ll like it at Hope.”  Charity gave Kit her hand with a warm grip.  “I’m from the east, too, only not so far as you are, but we think Pennsylvania’s east, out here.  How do you like the decoration?”

Kit liked it, and said so emphatically.  The room was in Chinese blue and black, tea table, chiffonier and two chairs painted a dull black, and the walls tinted a soft deep gray blue.

“I hunted all over Chicago for Chinese things, and I found a few.  Isn’t this a celestial rose jar?  I think it’s big enough for a pot of basil.  Who was the gentle poet that sang of the lady who buried her fond lover’s head in a flower pot and watered it with her tears?”

“Bet you use it for orange punch before the year is up,” Peggy laughed.  “Oh, Kit, she makes wonderful fruit punch.  Each guest brings her own favorite fruit, then Charity mashes them all together and it’s delicious.”

“I wish I stayed here all the time,” Kit exclaimed.  “You miss the fun, being a day student, don’t you?”

“Never mind, child,” Charity told her consolingly, “we will have some special daylight celebrations all for you.  Now clear out, girls, because I’m dying to lay out the first edition schedule.”

“Charity’s editor of the ‘Glamour,’” Peg said.  “The boys call it the ‘Clamour,’ but we don’t mind.  It used to be the ‘Gleam,’ but we thought ‘Glamour’ carried more intensity with it.  Kit’s going to dash off some little simple trifle in spare moments for us, aren’t you?  Amy writes poetry, free verse.  Show them that bit you made up in Assembly.”