The big girl’s breath was taken away. For the gulf between twelve and sixteen is a thing hardly passable in that stronghold of class distinction, a girls’ school. It was rare, indeed, that one of Miss Mar’s ripe age stooped to help a little girl over a difficulty in her lessons. It required something of the missionary spirit to take such pity upon homesickness, as occasionally to give the afflicted one the great treat of visiting a big girl on Saturday afternoon—but really to go to the length proposed— “I shan’t believe you really love me,” the little girl rushed on, “unless you say yes. Oh, do say yes. _Everything_ depends on it. I’ll promise always to say ‘Miss Mar’ before people. But if you’ll let me call you Hildegarde when we’re alone, I’ll _know_ you’re my best friend. And then I’ll tell you a secret. I’ll tell you two. _Tremendous_ secrets!” It was finally arranged. “Now for the tremendous secrets,” said Hildegarde, smiling. But Bella was portentously grave, even agitated. “Well,” she said, bracing herself, “my father’s an Englishman. Don’t tell anybody. Cross your heart and hope you may die if ever you tell the girls.” “All right. Cross my heart and hope I may die. But how in the world—?” “It isn’t my fault, you see. And _I’m_ an American all right. I’ve always wanted to explain to you ever since you were so angelic about my fractions; it’s because my father’s an Englishman I have to eat milk pudding. Over there”—Bella flicked a small hand across the American continent and over the Atlantic deep, to indicate an inconsiderable island where the natives persist in strange customs—“over there they all do it. Of course, the minute I’m of age I shall insist on pie.” They discussed the matter in all its bearings. “Now about the other secret.” “Well”—even the daring Bella caught her breath and paused. “No, not to-day. I’ll keep the tremendousest one for another time. But _do_ get out the silver locket, _dear_ Hildegarde, and let’s look at it.” Ultimately she prevailed. The next time Bella came she found a delightful surprise. The low table was cleared of everything but bowls of roses; and against the white wall great ferns printed plain their tall and splendid plumes—leaving free a little space in the middle where, on a gilt nail, hung the open locket. Bella was delighted with the whole scheme. “It only wants one thing to make it perfect. No, I won’t tell you what it is. I’ll bring it next Saturday.” “It” proved to be a paper of Chinese joss-sticks, and a little bronze perforated holder. “We must each burn one to him every week,” she said, setting up her contribution below the dangling locket. “I don’t quite know if we ought,” Hildegarde said. “Joss-sticks are prayers you know—at least the Chinese think so.” “Well, of course they’re prayers. That’s why I brought them.”