There is also Ada Steele, the poetess, who writes verses, some of which have actually appeared in print (in the "Family Page," I think), and you cannot imagine how conceited she is about it. I am told she knows every line of poetry that ever was written. She is such a dreadful plague, that I never go near her if I can avoid it. You cannot ask her what's the day of the month, but she'll give you a hundred lines of poetry right off from some poet or other. Meggy calls her "a tap of poetry," which once turned on, will go on running till you stop it. Byron is her especial favorite, and she always calls him "dear." His works are not allowed in the college; but Ada Steele has got a copy of them, and she puts it under her pillow every night. But the girl I dislike most is Susan Carney. Fancy a tall, thin creature, with hair the color of blotting-paper, and with eyes like an owl's, that cannot look at you, and you have her standing before you. She is the "_sneak_" of the school; and moves about like a cat. When we are talking secrets, and turn round, there she is--pretending to look for something, but in reality listening. Or, if a girl has comfortably got one of James's delicious novels inside her grammar, and looks up to see that it is all right and snug, there is Carney's cold, fishy eye sure to be fixed sideways upon her. Meggy says her eye is so sharp, she's confident that, like a needle's, _it would cut thread_. We cannot have a bit of fun but Miss Carney is sure to spoil it. We cannot read or write a letter in class without her knowing it. We cannot talk to the masters, or have a comfortable bit of gossip about the filthy dinners and the lady principal, without our being requested, before the day is half over, "to step to Mrs. R.'s boudoir," after which you will see the girls coming back with red eyes and burning cheeks. The oddest thing is, no one is sure that it is Carney who tells, though every one is convinced that she does. She manages it so cleverly that she is never found out. We tease her as much as we dare, calling her "policeman," "spy," "tell-tit," and everything we can think of; but it takes no effect upon her. She turns a little pale, talks morality in a whining tone, and leaves it to Mrs. Rodwell to redress her wrongs.