She straightened and turned her back to the dainty girl of luxury on the rear seat. She would not look again. But straight ahead, on the very front of the car, her gloomy, roaming gaze was stayed. What was this she saw? The pretty, plaintive face of the schoolgirl, in the mirror! She could not get away from it. The two pairs of blue eyes seemed to be looking directly into each other, but the Other Girl's were full of angry tears. The Other Girl sat up, straight and defiant, and stared ahead unswervingly. Mentally she was taking a scornful inventory of her own shabbiness. "My feather is perfectly straight;--it rained Saturday night, and I haven't had any time to curl it over the poker. It doesn't belong on a sailor, anyway, but it's better than a hole right into your hair! It covers up. My jacket collar is all fringy round the edges, and the top button is split. My necktie has been washed four times too often--ugh! I smell rubber!" Glory consulted her little chatelaine watch impatiently. "I hope we're 'most there!" she sighed. "If this hasn't been the longest ride! I know one thing--I shall bring my crochet-work to-morrow, and my tatting, and my knitting-work, and my--patchwork! There's more than one way to 'kill' time." She smiled to herself a little. From the cover of the tiny watch Aunt Hope's picture looked up at her, smiling too. Glory nodded back to it. "Yes'm, I've got everything--I haven't forgotten a thing. And I'm going to be good," she murmured, as she shut the sweet face out of sight. The train slowed up. Glory was feeling better because of the little draught of Sweet Face Tonic, and she was even humming a tune under her breath when she stepped down on to the platform. She stepped daintily along with her pretty head held up saucily and her skirts a-flutter. It wasn't so bad, after all, once off that horrid train--good riddance to it! Let it go fizzing and puffing away. The farther the better-- Suddenly Glory stood still and gazed downward at her empty hands, then at the fading curl of white smoke up the track. Her face was a study of dismay. "Oh! oh! That horrid train has carried off my books!" she cried. Chapter II. Glory swung about on her toes and marched away to the Centre Town ticketman, whom she knew a little. "Mr. Blodgett," she cried, "what do you do when you get off the train and your books don't?" The pleasant old face twinkled at her out of the little window. Mr. Blodgett's acquaintance with Glory had been enlivened by a good many such crises as this. In his mind he had always separated her from the other Douglas young misses as "The Fly-away One." "Forgot 'em, eh? Got carried off, did they? Well, that's a serious case. You'll have to engage a counsel, but I ain't sure you'll get your case. Looks to me as if the law was on the other--" "Mr. Blodgett," laughed Glory, "I don't want to get my 'case'--I want my books! What do folks do when they leave things--umbrellas or something--in their seats?"