At school the children made so much of him and of Joe, and delivered such eloquent admiration from their eyes, that the two heroes were not long in becoming insufferably “stuck-up.” They began to tell their adventures to hungry listeners—but they only began; it was not a thing likely to have an end, with imaginations like theirs to furnish material. And finally, when they got out their pipes and went serenely puffing around, the very summit of glory was reached. Tom decided that he could be independent of Becky Thatcher now. Glory was sufficient. He would live for glory. Now that he was distinguished, maybe she would be wanting to “make up.” Well, let her—she should see that he could be as indifferent as some other people. Presently she arrived. Tom pretended not to see her. He moved away and joined a group of boys and girls and began to talk. Soon he observed that she was tripping gayly back and forth with flushed face and dancing eyes, pretending to be busy chasing schoolmates, and screaming with laughter when she made a capture; but he noticed that she always made her captures in his vicinity, and that she seemed to cast a conscious eye in his direction at such times, too. It gratified all the vicious vanity that was in him; and so, instead of winning him, it only “set him up” the more and made him the more diligent to avoid betraying that he knew she was about. Presently she gave over skylarking, and moved irresolutely about, sighing once or twice and glancing furtively and wistfully toward Tom. Then she observed that now Tom was talking more particularly to Amy Lawrence than to any one else. She felt a sharp pang and grew disturbed and uneasy at once. She tried to go away, but her feet were treacherous, and carried her to the group instead. She said to a girl almost at Tom’s elbow—with sham vivacity: “Why, Mary Austin! you bad girl, why didn’t you come to Sunday-school?” “I did come—didn’t you see me?” “Why, no! Did you? Where did you sit?” “I was in Miss Peters’ class, where I always go. I saw _you_.” “Did you? Why, it’s funny I didn’t see you. I wanted to tell you about the picnic.” “Oh, that’s jolly. Who’s going to give it?” “My ma’s going to let me have one.” “Oh, goody; I hope she’ll let _me_ come.” “Well, she will. The picnic’s for me. She’ll let anybody come that I want, and I want you.” “That’s ever so nice. When is it going to be?” “By and by. Maybe about vacation.” “Oh, won’t it be fun! You going to have all the girls and boys?” “Yes, every one that’s friends to me—or wants to be”; and she glanced ever so furtively at Tom, but he talked right along to Amy Lawrence about the terrible storm on the island, and how the lightning tore the great sycamore tree “all to flinders” while he was “standing within three feet of it.” “Oh, may I come?” said Grace Miller. “Yes.” “And me?” said Sally Rogers. “Yes.” “And me, too?” said Susy Harper. “And Joe?” “Yes.”