Lavia Smiley came into the eighth grade with a consuming passion for color sensations. She had made collection after collection of colors in all sorts of substances—cloth, paper, stone, soil, metals of various sorts. She could give the names of all of them and could imitate them in pigment mixtures with remarkable exactness, for a girl of her age and very limited experience. [Sidenote: Breaking Necklace] One day, in the nature study class, Lavia’s teacher, Miss Westfeldt, had given a lesson on shells, and among other interesting things had shown the class a necklace of iridescent shells which her missionary brother had sent her from Micronesia. The lovely bluish-whitish-greenish-pinkish shimmer of the shells riveted Lavia’s attention like a magnet. “O, please, Miss Westfeldt, let me take them,” said Lavia. “No, Lavia,” answered Miss Westfeldt, “they are too delicate to handle, but I’ll hold them here in the sunlight where you can see them well. Aren’t they beautiful!” “O, I never saw any thing so pretty!” was the reply. The lesson ended, the necklace was laid back in the cotton in which it had taken its long journey over sea and land. Miss Westfeldt placed the box on the desk, intending to take it home with her when she went to lunch, but just as the morning session was closing, a telegram was handed her requiring an immediate answer. In her haste to attend to this intrusive matter, and yet not forfeit her lunch, the box with its precious necklace was forgotten. The first bell was ringing when Miss Westfeldt returned. She made haste to be in her place, as the children entered the room, and not until they were seated did she think of the shell-necklace. She opened the box. Ten were broken. “O, what has happened to my beautiful shells!” she cried out, in dismay. “How were they broken?” No one answered, but Lavia was crying. Miss Westfeldt immediately suspected that she was the guilty party, but she only said: “I am very, very sorry that this has happened, but never mind about it just now. I am sure the one who broke them will come and tell me about it.” Lavia continued to weep and after the other children were busy with their study Miss Westfeldt stepped quietly up to her and, bending over her and speaking in a tone so low the other children could not hear, said: “Lavia, dear, what is the matter?” “O, Miss Westfeldt, I broke your shells,” whispered Lavia, and then burst into another freshet of tears. “I am so sorry,” was the low reply. “After school tonight come and tell me all about it.” School closed. Lavia remained; and when all the other children had gone, Miss Westfeldt sat down beside her, put her arm around the child, her hand resting lightly on Lavia’s shoulder, and said, still in a low tone: “Now, Lavia, tell me how it all happened.”