Very often the two studied together in Dr. Rowe’s office, Ellen’s brighter mind getting at results more quickly than Caro’s duller one; yet Caro’s knowledge stuck by her, and many a time she was able to supply a reference or rule which Ellen had forgotten. Once in a while she would insist that Ellen read French to her, which Ellen, amused, would do, wondering how Caro could enjoy it when not one word did she understand. She insisted, however, that she liked the sound. The fact of the matter was that she so adored Ellen it was enough for her to hear her voice. Moreover, it gave her an excuse to keep her adored one longer with her. So the days went on. To the dingy old schoolhouse, set back in a bare yard, Ellen took her way each morning. It was situated midway between the two ends of the quiet little town. About it clustered such buildings as Perry’s store, another small one kept by Miss Malvina Sparks, a bakery and ice-cream saloon, the two churches, and the one hotel, dignified by the name of the Mansion House. Along the front of this almost any hour of the day was seen a row of men in tipped back chairs, drummers waiting for their train, idlers passing away the time in political gossip, or tourists obliged to stop over while their cars were being repaired. Beyond the hotel were the blacksmith’s shop and a garage, and beyond these the houses began again, stretching as far north as the big factory of Sylvester Ives, and, after a vacant space, houses again, continuing as far north at this end of the town as they did south on the other, and gradually standing farther and farther apart till their surroundings became farm lands. Carolyn’s devotion to Ellen soon became a live topic with the schoolgirls. “Caro hath an awful cruth on that red-headed Ellen North,” Florence was wont to say jealously. “There ithn’t a day that she doethn’t bring her thomething. To-day it wath fudge, and yethterday it wath caketh.” “Perhaps she thinks she doesn’t get enough to eat at Miss Rindy’s,” suggested Marcia Sloane maliciously. “Oh, March, I don’t think it is nice for you to say that,” objected Sally Cooper. “Every one knows that Miss Rindy isn’t rich, but she belongs to one of the best families.” “Well, no one would guess it from the way she dresses that airish Ellen,” retorted Marcia. “I don’t think she is a bit airish,” protested Sally; “she is just artistic. I know plenty of persons who admire her.” “I’d like to know who they are,” said Florence scornfully. “One of them you would be very pleased to have admire you,” Sally answered back, now having taken up the cudgels in good earnest. “Will you pleathe to tell me who you mean,” returned Florence in a haughty tone. “Oh, you needn’t look so scornful. It was Clyde Fawcett. I heard him say to your own brother, Frank, that he thought Ellen North was going to be a stunner, and Frank said: ‘I think she is now. She can have me.’ So there, miss.”