“Oh, have you seen her!” exclaimed Rose-Mary Markin.

“Sweet Ever-lean-er!” chimed in Edna Black.

“What’s so interesting about her?” asked little Nita Brandt, in her most sarcastic tone.

“Why, don’t you know?” went on Edna, familiarly called Ned Ebony.

“I suppose because she’s French—”

“Not at all, my dear,” interrupted Ned. “It’s because she’s a real little beauty. Here come Dorothy and Tavia, leave it to them.”

The girls were at Glenwood School—all over the place, as Tavia expressed it. But the particular group in question happened to be situated in the broad hall near the “coming in” door—these girls always formed the reception committee on opening day.

“Oh,” moaned Dorothy, as she sank into a cushioned seat, “I’m dead and buried—”

“And no insurance,” interrupted Tavia, following Dorothy’s move and getting into some cushions for her own comfort.

“Mean trip?” asked Rose-Mary.

“Mean!” echoed Tavia, “we stopped at every telegraph pole and backed up between each pair. Doro made out all right—she had a book. But poor me! I just doubled up in a heap and now the heap is all doubled up in me,” and she went through a series of “squirms,” calculated to get “out of the heap.”

“We were just speaking of the new girl—Miette de—de—what is it?” asked Cologne.

“Miette de Pain, likely,” said Adele Thomas.

“Miette de Luxe,” put in Lena Berg. “That’s my limit in French.”

“Well, she is de luxe, all right,” went on Cologne, “but I believe she signs her name Miette de Pleau, a queer name, but Miette suits her exactly, she is so tiny, like a crumb, surely.”

“Does Miette mean crumb?” lisped Nita Brandt.

“It does,” Cologne told her, “but it is also a pet name for Marie, used in certain parts of France—see page 167—”

“Or see the angel herself,” interrupted Edna, as the new girl, at that moment, entered the hall.

All eyes were instantly riveted on the stranger. Certainly she was a “beauty,” with that rare type of face one might expect to meet only between the pages of some art work.

And she was tiny—small in figure and small in height. Yet she held her head so well, and her shoulders were thrown back in such an enviable poise—no wonder the girls thought this little French girl well worth discussing.

For a moment she stood there, her brown eyes glistening and her cheeks aflame.

Dorothy stepped up to her.

“You are Miette, aren’t you?” she began kindly. “Come, let me introduce you. This is Rose-Mary Markin, we call her Cologne; this is Nita Brandt, this is Amy Brooks, this is Tavia Travers, and this is Edna Black, we call her Ned Ebony. You see,” went on Dorothy, as the new girl finished her graceful bow, “we nick-name everybody. I am afraid you will not escape.”

“I will not mind,” said Miette, smiling. “I have been called many names at home.”

“You live in New York?” asked Cologne, attempting to get in the conversation.

“At present, yes,” answered Miette, “but I have not been long in this country.”

“Yet you speak English well,” remarked Ned.

“I had a very good English teacher at home,” went on the stranger, “and my mother was an American.”

“Oh, then you are only some French,” spoke up Nita Brandt, with a look that meant the other “some” was not of so high a social order.

Miette dropped her eyes. Dorothy glared at Nita. The others saw that the remark had pained the new pupil.

“Come on,” spoke up Dorothy, “we must show you around. We are rather lazy to-day—those of us who have been travelling, but as you came yesterday I suppose you are quite rested, and would like to get acquainted with everything. Come on, girls. Let’s see if we remember how to make Glenwood tea.”

“Tea and turn out,” responded Tavia. “I’ll take the tea, but I never cared for ‘turning out.’”

This sally seemed very funny to Miette, who laughed outright, and in turn her laugh seemed very funny to the other girls. It was so surprising to hear the peal of real live laughter ring out through the place. Of course, all the pupils knew how to laugh, but somehow this was different—and from the little stranger in her plain black dress the outburst was entirely unexpected.

“She’s all right,” whispered Ned to Cologne, “any girl with a roar like that is sound. Just see Nita titter, and listen to Lena giggle. Now, they’re hopeless.”

The happy party were making their way to the room Dorothy and Tavia used, numbered nineteen, when, passing the office, Mrs. Pangborn, the president of Glenwood, called to Dorothy.

“Dorothy, will you step into the office, dear, for just a moment? Then you may go with the others—I see they are looking for fun, somewhere.”

“Come along, Miette,” and Cologne hooked her arm into the black sleeve. “No use waiting for the parson. You see, we call Dorothy Dale ‘Parson,’ because she’s a D. D.” she explained.

“O-h-h!” answered the French girl, in the inimitable “chromatic” voice peculiar to her country.

Then they ran along—to room nineteen.

Meanwhile Mrs. Pangborn was talking to Dorothy.

“This little strange girl has had some sadness in her life lately,” she said, “and I would like you to be especially kind to her, Dorothy. I know you are always kind to new pupils,” the president hurried to add, “but in this case I am most anxious that Miette shall not be pained, and sometimes girls do not realize the small things that hurt sensitive strangers. For instance, I would not like the girls to ask Miette about her relations,” finished Mrs. Pangborn.

“I’ll do all I can,” promptly replied Dorothy, “but, as you say, Mrs. Pangborn, girls do not realize how easily strangers may be offended,” she finished, thinking of the pained look that had overspread Miette’s face when Nita spoke of her parentage.

“Well, my dear, I know I can depend upon you. And should you discover that any girl might take a seeming dislike—that is, disregard actual courtesy—I should be obliged if you would report it to me. I must see that this child is as happy as we can make her,” and at this Mrs. Pangborn smiled pleasantly and Dorothy went out to join her companions.

“There is some mystery,” Dorothy told herself, “about the pretty little Miette. I don’t relish playing spy, but, of course, as Mrs. Pangborn says, she must be allowed to be happy.”

At room nineteen the girls were having the first fun of the season, which meant that the fun should be of the very jolliest character. Tavia had brewed the tea, and the others insisted upon drinking it without ceremony, each declaring she was choked, and apologizing for the lack of courtesy in not having waited for Dorothy, on the plea that Nineteen’s teapot didn’t hold enough, anyhow, in spite of a “keg” of hot water that was being drawn from for each cup, so that, according to Ned, Tavia should make fresh tea for Dorothy, and incidentally pass it around.

“My brand of tea is not for loafers,” declared Tavia, jokingly, “and I refuse to open the bag until you girls have earned a treat. I expected to have a regular affair Wednesday night.”

“Well, just give us a sample copy,” begged Ned. “You always did have the very best tea—”

“Positively the most delicious,” put in Cologne.

“Without question the most aromatic—” added Molly Richards, while, at a sly wink from Ned, Tavia was seized, placed on the divan, bound with the big Bagdad cover, while the girls not engaged in keeping her there, proceeded to get at Tavia’s cupboard, and not only did they get the tea, but a box of bonbons, a box of crackers, and the choicest of school girl dainties—a half dozen of real sour pickles!

Tavia only moaned. She could not move, and she knew it was useless to argue. Miette sat there in evident delight. She was still too timid to take any other part in the proceedings.

“But, girls,” begged Dorothy, “you really ought to leave her the pickles. We almost missed our train in getting them—”

“Oh, yes,” followed Tavia. “Take anything else. ‘Take, if you must, this poor gray head, but spare my pickles, do,’ she said,” she quoted.

“But this is our last chance,” persisted Ned, burying her lips in the largest green “cucumber” she could select from the bag. “Whew!” and she made a very sour face, “these certainly would keep—they’re briny enough. Perhaps you girls had better not take any,” and she continued to devour the sample. “These would be lovely for a picnic. I can’t see—why pickles,” and she paused for breath that seemed to go with each swallow, “are eliminated from the bill of fare of this establishment.”

“They are very bad for the teeth,” ventured Miette, “we do not eat them in—France.”

“French people not eat pickles?” spoke up Nita, “why, I always understood—”

“Not French people, but French girls,” corrected Dorothy, immediately on the defensive. “Ned, when you have finished with your ‘dessert,’ perhaps you will hand around some of these crackers.”

“De-lighted!” responded Edna, swallowing the stem of her pickle. “But, honest, Tavia, I never did taste or experience anything so deliciously sour. I believe I’m embalmed,” and she doubled up in apprehension.

“Sour things I have known,” remarked Adele Thomas. “The new teacher, Miss Bylow, for instance.”

“Oh, she certainly is the real thing in sours,” chimed in Amy Brooks.

“And what a name—Bylow. It ought to have been ByGeorge or Bygosh,” declared Cologne. “Never ‘Bylow’ in hers. But we had best be cautious,” with a finger on her lips, “I understand the new lady is scientific. There’s a tube in the hall, you will remember, and she may have attached some little old phonographic wax plate and be taking us ‘all in.’”

“And she squints,” Nita informed them.

“That’s a mercy,” declared Edna, “for she won’t be able to tell whether we’re winking or blinking. And sometimes it’s very convenient to wink and call it a blink, eh, Tavia?”

As the refreshments had been served, Tavia was allowed to sit up and have her own share, and now insisted upon Miette finishing the last of the tea with her.

“The others were too—too, you would call it naughty, I suppose, Miette,” she said, “but here when we are all alone we sometimes call a thing like that ‘fresh,’” and she gave her very worst glare to Edna.

“Now, girls,” began Rose-Mary quite solemnly, “I’m going to invite you to my Lair night after to-morrow. I’m going to have a little surprise. All hands will be welcome, please bring—”

“Frappe smiles,” broke in Edna. “We ought to have something ‘frappe,’ and smiles are real nice at a party.”

“But the committee on initiation?” asked Tavia, “we may as well appoint them this minute, while we are not ‘Bylowed.’ I move we expel Ned Ebony from the committee. She was the ring leader in this daring hold-up.”

“Oh, you and your old pickle!” laughed Ned. “I’ll make that all right when my box comes,” with a sly wink at Tavia, for Edna and Tavia were great chums.

“If retribution does not overtake you before that time,” prophesied Tavia. “Or Bylow,” reminded Cologne. “I rather have a premonition concerning the new teacher.”

“Mine’s worse than that,” declared Tavia. “It’s like a Banshee’s howl.”

“Well, we’ll have our ‘jinks,’ anyhow,” promised Edna, “and if she—”

“Butts in—pardon me, ladies,” and Tavia bowed profusely, “but when I say ‘butts in’ I mean, of course, any other word in the English language that may suit the case. Help yourselves.”

So the first afternoon at Glenwood had slipped by, and now the new girls, as well as the old, realized they were away from home, and must miss all the little fireside loves as well as the after-dinner nonsense that youth is accustomed to indulge in among the dear ones at home. At school it was very different. And the heroic efforts that so often resulted in surprising ventures were really nothing more than brave attempts to cover up these losses.

But would the new teacher regard the girls’ tricks from this viewpoint?