Barbara's disappointment had lost some of its bitterness by the time the seven o'clock bell woke her on the following morning. Perhaps, after all, it was her own fault that things had not turned out so delightfully as she had expected. Even the boys used to call her clumsy and stupid sometimes; so why should she expect any more tolerance from her school-fellows? Anyhow, here was the beginning of another day, and there was still plenty of time for her dream to come true.
It did not seem much like coming true, though, as she stood in the juniors' room after breakfast, jostled from right to left by the girls who were on their way to the different classrooms, and wondering when somebody would come and tell her where she was to go. She wished rather sadly that everybody in this school would not expect her to know things by instinct.
'Do _you_ know where I am to go?' she begged, catching hold of Jean Murray as she hurried by. Babs had forgotten, if, indeed, she had ever realised, that Jean looked upon her as an enemy.
'Go and ask one of the seniors,' retorted Jean, shaking her off. 'You're much too high and mighty to have anything to do with us.'
'What is she talking about?' asked the amazed Barbara, looking after her.
'Well, it isn't likely she can forget all at once that you got her a scolding from Margaret Hulme,' explained Angela, who was hurrying as usual after her friend, like a shadow.
'_I_ got her a scolding? What do you mean?' cried Babs.
'Oh, it's all very well to be so innocent,' snorted Angela; and she disappeared too.
Barbara sighed and remained where she was, till she was moved on again.
'Do get out of the way,' complained some one else; 'you're right in front of my bookshelf.'
Barbara sprang aside hastily, and caught her foot in the leg of a desk and fell down.
'I don't mind moving,' she said, getting up again and rubbing her elbow, 'but I do wish I knew where to move to.'
'Can't you find out?' asked the owner of the bookshelf inconsistently, as she rushed off with her arms full of books.
Barbara sighed again. Try as she might to make the best of things, it was a little tiring to be such a universal object of complaint.
'Hullo, Babe! You ought not to be here,' said a cheery voice from the seniors' room, and Ruth Oliver put her head round the red curtain. 'This is only the playroom, you know, and, except for preparation or for fetching your books between the classes, you are never supposed to use it in lesson-time. The classrooms are upstairs.'