She nursed and fostered an intense love for the mother she had never seen, unless in babyhood. She had been born in India, where her parents still were, and her mother had been so ill for a long time after the birth that it had been deemed wise to send the delicate baby of eighteen months home to England to be brought up by a maiden aunt, as, in any case, she must very soon, like all Anglo-Indian children, leave the trying climate. Thus Linnæa could not remember the face of her mother, but she cherished a photograph of her, and her letters were the bright spots in an otherwise colourless life. Miss March had no love for the child committed to her care, and made no pretence of any. Her comfort and training were strictly looked after--no suspicion of neglect could be breathed--but the love which is necessary to the happiness of a child’s life was a-wanting. “Such a very unattractive child!” Miss March described her to her acquaintances, even at times in the presence of the little girl, so that she grew up with the idea firmly rooted in her mind that she was plain, stupid, and that no one cared for her. Companions she had none--in fact, was not allowed to have--for her aunt could not tolerate any noise or disorder in her well-regulated house. Mrs. Sedley, the Rector’s wife, had invited the solitary child to come and have a romp with her lively boys and girls; but the invitation had been refused, because Miss March could not think of having them at her house in return. Mrs. Sedley’s motherly heart was glad when she heard it had been decided that Linnæa should go to a boarding school. “She will have companions now, poor child; and lead a much brighter life than she has led here.” But the life she led now was little if any brighter than the other had been. The first morning after her arrival in school Linnæa was introduced to her companions by Miss Elder, the principal. “This is a new companion for you--Linnæa March. I hope you will all be friendly to her as she is a stranger yet.” Plainly dressed to severity, her face more forbidding than usual from the fact that she felt shy but would not show it, Linnæa sat on a chair near the door, and the other girls did their duty by staring at her unmercifully. One governess was in the room and, unfortunately, not a very judicious one. After a few minutes had passed, she looked over at the newcomer and said-- “Now, little girl, don’t look so sulky. You must put on a nice pleasant face, so that your companions will like you.” It was an unhappy remark. Some of the more forward girls tittered, and the forlorn, lonely child felt even more isolated and friendless than she had felt in her aunt’s house. “Come away over here,” said the governess again, “and tell us how old you are and where you come from.” “From the Ark, I should guess!” whispered one girl, who was supposed to be witty by some--herself in particular.