Lucilla Waters lives down in the heart of the town. So does Leslie Goldthwaite, to be sure; but then Mr. Goldthwaite's is one of the old, old-fashioned houses that were built when the town was country, and that has its great yard full of trees and flowers around it now; and Mrs. Waters lives in a block, flat-face to the street, with nothing pretty outside, and not very much in; for they have never been rich, the Waterses, and Mr. Waters died ten years ago, when Lucilla was a little child. Lucilla and her mother keep a little children's school; but it was vacation now, of course. Lucilla is in Mrs. Ingleside's Bible-class; that is how Ruth, and then the rest of us, came to know her. Arctura Fish is another of Mrs. Ingleside's scholars. She is a poor girl, living at service,--or, rather, working in a family for board, clothing, and a little "schooling,"--the best of which last she gets on Sundays of Mrs. Ingleside,--until she shall have "learned how," and be "worth wages." Arctura Fish is making herself up, slowly, after the pattern of Lucilla Waters. She would not undertake Leslie Goldthwaite or Helen Josselyn,--Mrs. Ingleside's younger sister, who stays with her so much,--or even our quiet Ruth. But Lucilla Waters comes _just next_. She can just reach up to her. She can see how she does up her hair, in something approaching the new way, leaning back behind her in the class and tracing out the twists between the questions; for Lucilla can only afford to use her own, and a few strands of harmless Berlin wool under it; she can't buy coils and braids and two-dollar rats, or intricacies ready made up at the--upholsterer's, I was going to say. So it is not a hopeless puzzle and an impracticable achievement to little Arctura Fish. It is wonderful how nice she has made herself look lately, and how many little ways she puts on, just like Lucilla's. She hasn't got beyond mere mechanical copying, yet; when she reaches to where Lucilla really is, she will take in differently. Ruth gave up her little white room to Delia Waite, and went to sleep with Lucilla in the great, square east room. Delia Waite thought a great deal of this; and it was wonderful how nobody could ever get a peep at the room when it looked as if anything in it had been used or touched. Ruth is pretty nice about it; but she cannot keep it so _sacredly_ fair and pure as Delia did for her. Only one thing showed. "I say," said Stephen, one morning, sliding by Ruth on the stair-rail as they came down to breakfast, "do you look after that _piousosity_, now, mornings?" "No," said Ruth, laughing, "of course I can't." "It's always whopped," said Stephen, sententiously.