Virginia, sitting opposite, could not resist stealing shy and hurried glances at the two girls, because she felt sure that they also were bound for St. Helen’s. She liked them both, she told herself. They were apparently about the same age—probably sixteen or thereabouts. The one who had been so solicitous about the “Thought Book,” and whom they had called Priscilla, had brown eyes and unruly brown hair, which would fall about her face. She was very much tanned, wore a blue suit, and little white felt hat, and looked merry, Virginia thought, though she could hardly be called pretty. The other, whose name evidently was Dorothy, was very pretty. Virginia thought she had never seen a prettier girl. Her complexion was very fair, her eyes a deep, lovely blue, her hair golden and fluffy about her face, her features even, and her teeth perfect. She was dressed in dark green, and to Virginia’s admiring eyes looked just like an apple-blossom. Undeniably, she was lovely; but, as Virginia shyly studied the two faces, she found herself liking Priscilla’s the better. The other some way did not look so contented, so frank, or so merry. Still, Virginia liked Dorothy—Dorothy what—she wondered. As they continued talking, she became convinced that they were going to St. Helen’s, that they had been there a year already, and that Dorothy had been visiting Priscilla for a month before school opened. She longed to speak to them, but, remembering what Donald had said about Easterners not being so sociable with strangers, she checked the impulse, not knowing how they would regard it, and not wishing to intrude. Still, she could not resist listening to the conversation, which she could hardly have helped hearing, had she wished not to do so. “Dear me! I wish now we hadn’t been so silly, Dorothy, and done all those crazy things. Then we could have roomed together this year.” “I know. Maybe ’twas foolish, but I’ll never forget them. Especially the time when we dropped the pumpkin pie before Miss Green’s door.” They both laughed. “And, anyway, Priscilla, with Greenie in The Hermitage, if we’d been saints, we couldn’t have roomed together. She thinks we’re both heathen, and I worse than you; and just because she does think I’m so bad, I feel like being just as bad as I can be. I wish Miss Wallace would have the cottage alone this year. She’s such a darling! I just adore her! I’d scrub floors for her! My dear, she wrote me the most divine letter this summer! It absolutely thrilled me, and I was good for a week afterward!” Virginia looked out of the window amused. What queer ways of saying things! She had never heard a letter called “divine” before; nor had she realized that scrubbing floors and adoring some one were harmonious occupations. She listened again. Priscilla was talking this time.