It was “high noon” in New York, as our English cousins say, but in a wider sense than our English cousins use it. Not only was it twelve by the clock, with the sun high in the heavens, flooding the streets with brilliant sunshine, but the whole city apparently was in the highest spirits. The sidewalks were alive with gayly dressed people, gayly liveried carriages rolled up and down the avenue, violets and lilacs were for sale at the flower-stands, and the children were out in crowds for an airing.

Here a little group of them, with unspeakable longing in their hearts, surrounded a grimy man who had snow-white puppies for sale; there another and larger group watched a wonderful ship in a glass case, riding angular green waves which rose and fell with the regularity of a pendulum, and some of them furtively glanced up now and then, with eyes full of astonished admiration, to the gray-bearded man who claims the honor of the invention.

But notwithstanding it was Saturday, with half the world bent on a holiday, and schools as a rule at a discount, there was one school over on the West side that threw open its doors to an eager company of scholars. It was a school where the children came because they loved to come, and no wonder. You had only to see the teachers to understand it. They were lovely-looking girls, with their bright, wide-awake faces and becoming, well-fitting dresses; enthusiastic, earnest girls, thoroughly abreast of the times, interested in everything, and fond of all that is high and ennobling—working in the sewing school this afternoon, attractive matinÉes notwithstanding, and talking it over in some bright circle this evening; girls, the very sight of whom must somehow have done good to the very dullest little maids upon their roll books. But queen among even this peerless company reigned “Miss Julia,” the superintendent, or whatever the proper name may be for the head teacher. She was lovely to look at, and lovely in spirit, and beyond that it is useless to attempt description, so impossible is it to put into words the indefinable charm that won every one to her. But with the bright May Saturday, about which we are writing, the afternoon for closing the school had come, and there was a wistful expression on the faces of many of the children. Not that they were exactly anxious to stitch on and on through the spring-time, when every healthy little body loves out-of-door life and lots of it, but no sewing school meant no Miss Julia; so, with reason, they looked less glad than sorry.

Miss Julia, as was her custom, had started in abundance of time from her old-fashioned home in Washington Square, but not too early, it seemed, to find at a corner near the chapel where the school was held, half a dozen little girls already on the look-out. As soon as they spied her they flocked down the street to meet her, and then with her in their midst flocked back again. Presently, in twos and threes, the young teachers began to arrive, and soon it was time to open the school and to settle down to the last day's lesson.

Courage Masterson happened to be in Miss Julia's own class, and was ordinarily a most apt little scholar; but on this particular Saturday her thoughts seemed to be everywhere rather than on her work; indeed, she had to rip out almost every stitch taken, until Miss Julia wondered what could have happened. Afterward, when the children had said their good-byes and gone home, and the teachers, with the exception of Miss Julia, had all left the building, Courage, who had been standing unnoticed in one corner, rushed up to her, burying her red-brown curls in the folds of her dress and sobbing fit to break her heart.

“Why, Courage, dear, what is the matter?” and Miss Julia, sitting down on one of the benches, drew Courage into her lap. “I was afraid all the lesson that something had gone wrong. Poor child! have you some new sorrow to bear?”

“No, Miss Julia; I am going to do just what I want to do most; I am going to live on a boat; but, oh! I can't bear to go away from you and Mary Duff.”

“Going away, and to live on a boat! why, how is that, Courage?” and then as Courage explained all the plans, and how she was to spend the whole summer out on the bay with “Larry, the goodest man that ever was,” her sad little face gradually grew bright again.

“Look here,” said Miss Julia, after they had been talking a long while together, “I am sure”—and then she paused and looked Courage over quite carefully—- “yes, I am sure I have something that will be just the thing for you now that you are to be so much on the water; wait here for a moment,” and going into a little room that opened from the chapel, she immediately returned with something in her hands that made Courage open her eyes for wonder. It was a beautiful astrachan-trimmed blue coat, with a wide-brimmed hat to match. They had belonged to a little niece of Miss Julia's—a little niece who no longer had need for any earth-made garment, and so here they were in Miss Julia's hands awaiting some new child-ownership.

She had already thought of Courage Masterson as one to whom they would prove not only useful but becoming, and yet had feared to excite the envy of the other children. But if Courage was going away, that settled it; she should have them; for in that case her less fortunate little sisters need never be the wiser. So Miss Julia gladly held them up to view, for she dearly loved little Courage, while Courage, incredulous, exclaimed: “For me? Oh, Miss Julia!” and proceeded to don the coat and hat with the alacrity of a little maid appreciative of their special prettiness. Then what did the little witch do but run post-haste to the rear of the chapel, mount the high and slippery organ-bench, and have a peep into the mirror above it. Miss Julia could not keep from smiling, but said, as she came running back: “It does look nicely on you, Courage, but you must not let it make you vain, darling.”

“Was it vain to want to see how it looked?”

“No, Courage; I don't believe it was.”

“I'm glad I did see just once, though, because, Miss Julia, I guess it will not do for me to have it,” and Courage reluctantly began to unfasten the pretty buttons.

“Not do for you to have it! Why, Courage dear, what do you mean?”

“It is so bright-looking, Miss Julia. Even this curly black stuff doesn't darken it much (admiringly smoothing the astrachan trimming with both little hands), and one of the girls said to-day in the class that 'orphans as had any heart always wore black.' At any rate, she said she shouldn't think if I had loved my father very much I'd wear a gay ribbon like this in my hair,” whereupon Courage produced a crumpled red bow from the recesses of a pocket to which it had been summarily banished; “So, of course, Miss Julia, it would be dreadful to wear a blue coat like this. It's queer Mary Duff never told me about orphans wearing black always.”

“But they do not always wear it, Courage. It seems sad to me to see a child in black, and I think Mary Duff did just right in not putting you into mourning.”

“Into mourning?” queried Courage.

“Yes; into black dresses, I mean, because some one had died.”

Courage looked critically at Miss Julia, noticing for the first time that her dress was black, and that even the little pin at her throat was black, too.

“Why, Miss Julia,” she said, her voice fairly trembling with the surprise of the discovery, “you are in mourning!”

“Yes, Courage.”

“And did somebody die, Miss Julia?”

“Some one I loved very much.”

“Long ago?” and Courage came close to the low bench, and lovingly laid her hand upon Miss Julia's shoulder.

“Yes, very long ago.”

“Not your father or mother, was it?”

“No, darling.”

“And you mind still?” ruefully shaking her head from side to side.

“Yes, Courage; I shall always mind, as you call it, but I am no longer miserable and unhappy—that is, not very often, and one reason is that all you little girls here in the school have grown so dear to me. But about the coat; you must surely keep it. I scarcely believe your father would like to have seen his little girl all in black; and besides, black does not seem to belong with that brave little name of yours.”

Courage stood gazing into Miss Julia's face with a puzzled look in her eyes, as though facing the troublesome question. Then suddenly diving again into her spacious pocket—a feature to be relied upon in connection with Mary Duffs dressmaking—and evidently discovering what she sought, she said, eagerly: “Miss Julia, will you wait here a moment?”

“Certainly, dear; but what are you up to?” Courage, however, had no time to explain, and with the blue coat flying out behind her, darted from the chapel, across the street, into a little thread-and-needle store, and was back again in a flash, carrying a thin flimsy package. Hastily unwrapping it, she disclosed a yard of black ribbon, which she thrust into Miss Julia's hands.

“What is this for, Courage?”

In her excitement Courage simply extended her left arm with a “Tie it round, please,” indicating the place with her right hand. Miss Julia wonderingly did as she was bid.