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Updated: June 15, 2025
With Molly's gift, a little carved ivory box, Otoyo handed a letter. "I promised to deliver it on the last day," she said. "That sounds a good deal like the Judgment Day," said Molly, laughing, as she tore open the envelope. The letter read: "The Campus Ghost and the Thief of Lunches has learned from you what nobody ever told her before: that honesty's the best policy.
"Oh, that list!" returned Nance. "She has everything on it now from white gloves to a trunk strap, and still it grows!" "'Seniors, seniors, seniors," chanted Margaret and Jessie dreamily, watching Otoyo as she deftly arranged her dainty cups and saucers on beautiful lacquered trays.
Here was news indeed for seven seniors at the very head and front of college affairs. "And where did you get this interesting information, little one?" demanded Margaret. Otoyo blushed and hesitated; then cocked her head on one side exactly like a little song sparrow and glancing timidly at Nance, replied: "Mr. Andrew McLean, second, he told it to me." Nance smiled unconcernedly.
Glancing at the tower clock, Molly saw that she still had three quarters of an hour before the lecture on early Victorian Poets by the Professor of English Literature from Exmoor, who came over several times a week to substitute for Professor Green. "I think I'll run in and see Otoyo a few minutes," Molly said to herself. "The girls can wait. There's been something queer about Otoyo lately.
The regular nurse of the infirmary who usually sat in the waiting room was not visible to-day. A freshman was ill and she was probably busy, Otoyo explained. "Who is looking after the Professor?" Molly asked. Miss Fern, it appeared, assisted by the infirmary nurse, attended her cousin during the day, and his sister nursed him at night.
Molly was opposed to rapping on the Professor's door, but Otoyo, amiably but unswervingly persistent in attaining her ends, gently tapped on the door. "Come in," called Professor Green's voice, weak almost beyond recognition. Otoyo peeped into the room. "He is alone," she whispered, and with that she pushed Molly through the door with arm of steel. "I will keep watch for ten minutes without.
"No, no, nothing wrong. Something very right. My honorable father is coming to Wellington to see his humble little daughter. O, I am so happee!" and Miss Sen executed a few steps of the "Boston," she had lately learned to dance. Molly watched the plump little figure gliding about the room and smiled. What a dear, funny little person Otoyo was. "I am so glad. How joyful you must be.
I shall never believe it unless Otoyo really tells the name." And so Judy went off to bed entirely unreasonable about this new and fascinating friend. "All I can say for you, Judy," said Molly, standing in Judy's bedroom doorway, "is that I hate your black hair, but do you remember that old poem we used to sing as children? I'm sure you must have known it. Most children have." "Humph!" said Judy.
There were tears in their eyes and little choky sounds in their voices as they kissed and hugged and kissed again. Otoyo at that last meeting gave a present to each of the old crowd. She was smiling bravely, since it is not correct for a young Japanese lady to weep, and she kept reiterating: "I shall mees you, greatlee, muchlee. It will not be the same at Wellington."
It had been such a perfect time to study, with Nance at a lecture and Judy practicing basket ball. "Will Mees Brown do me one great beeg favor?" began Otoyo with some embarrassment. "Yes, indeed. Anything." It appeared that Otoyo was very anxious to call on Professor Green and she wished Miss Brown to go with her. "You have seen the honorable Professor?" she asked innocently.
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