The only one who was really indifferent to the new arrival was Linnæa. She had had her times of hidden excitement over an expected newcomer, and vague longings that she might be “nice,” but these feelings were over and done, with long ago. Successive disappointments had embittered her, and now it was a matter of little moment to her who came and went. This night she had a slight headache and felt tired of her schoolfellows’ chatter and not inclined to face the introduction of a new girl, proud and haughty, who would doubtless criticise her looks and manners and set her down--as all the others had done--as hopelessly unattractive. She therefore slipped quietly away to her room. “Oh, I do wish Miss Elder would bring her in to-night!” said one; and, as if in response to her wish, the door opened and the principal entered, followed by the new girl. “This is Miss Gwendoline Rivers,” said Miss Elder, introducing a few of the girls who were nearest her by name. “I shall leave her with you for twenty minutes, but after that she must go to bed, as she has come a long way to-day.” Shyness was not one of the new pupil’s failings, and she asked more questions than she answered. Soon she had found out all the rules and regulations of the school, and had taken mental note of a few of the characters around her. Report had been correct as far as her beauty and wealth were concerned--her connection with the earl was a little more remote--she was indeed a lovely girl. Her dark eyes were large and lustrous, and her face had an almost southern richness of colouring. Her appearance was aristocratic to a degree, and her clothes were expensive and in the best of taste. [Illustration: THE DUNCE OF THE SCHOOL.] “Are you all here?” she said by-and-by, looking round on the group. “All except two. Alice Melrose is in bed with neuralgia, and Linnæa March has retired for the night.” “And, pray, why has Linnæa March retired for the night? Had she not the curiosity to wait up and see the newest thing in girls? I suppose she knew I should arrive to-night, as you all did, and I know you were all dying for me to put in an appearance so that you might deluge me with questions. But I think I have got more out of you than you have out of me. I find the only way to avoid too many questions is to ask a great many yourself. Tell me about Miss March, please; I am quite excited. What an outlandish name, too? She is altogether very mysterious!” “There is not much to tell about Linnæa March, as you will soon know. You will find the best way is to leave her alone, for, as sure as fate, she will not trouble herself about you, any more than she has about the rest of us.” “But that is precisely what I never do! I never allow anyone to be indifferent to me; they may hate me, if they please, but they shall not be indifferent!” “You don’t know Linnæa. I don’t believe she knows what love and hate are--love, at least; she might manage to hate you, perhaps!”