Miss Hope Benham! It was five years since Dolly's encounter with Hope in the Brookside station, and four years since she had heard her or the name of Benham referred to. This later reference was made by Mr. Dering one morning at the breakfast-table.

"Well, Dolly," he had suddenly said, glancing up from his newspaper, "that little flower-girl who got the better of you last season is in luck."

Dolly looked up with a puzzled expression.

"What! you've forgotten the little girl at the Brookside station who told you how ignorant and bad-mannered you were?"

"Oh, Ten-cents-a-bunch!" shouted Dolly.

"Yes, little Ten-cents-a-bunch. Well, her father, the engineer, is on the high road to fortune by a certain successful invention of his. Now, what do you say to that?"

"Ten-cents-a-bunch," repeated Dolly, laughing.

"Oh, that Mr. Benham, the engineer you told us of last season?" asked Mary, with interest.

"Yes, that's the man. He has procured a patent on a valuable invention of his, and is going to be a rich man by means of it. He's a much cleverer fellow than I thought. I heard him speak the other night before the Scientific Mechanics' Association, and it was a very intelligent speech, full of scientific knowledge, and showing a great deal of ability."

"And last year, father, you laughed at me for asking you if he had this ability."

Mr. Dering shook his head with a comic smile.

"Oh, well, Mary, we are all liable to mistakes. I've seen so much of this inventive ambition that came to nothing, I've grown to be cautious in my judgments."

"Of course he isn't running an engine now?"

"Bless you, no. He's off to Europe this month. He's made some contract with a firm in France for the use of his invention. They had heard of it through a former fellow-workman of Benham's,—another clever fellow, yet not a genius like Benham, though he has gained for himself quite an important position as an inspector of locomotives abroad; but there is an account of the whole thing in the morning's paper."

Dolly listened to this talk with a very divided attention. She had a big picnic on her mind, and all other matters were of very little importance beside that. It was thus that Ten-cents-a-bunch and the name of Benham were quite overborne for the time by this interest. After four years more of picnics and other pleasurings, Dolly heard the name again without the slightest recognition, and in the tall young girl of fifteen, with her womanly face and her hair wound into a knot at the back of her head, she received no suggestion of little Ten-cents-a-bunch.

And how was it with Hope? Hope remembered. The last four years of her life had been passed abroad, most of them in France, where she had been at school in Paris, while her father and mother were established near by,—her father taking advantage of the great opportunities Paris offered him for scientific study. It was a happy time for all of them, and in this happy time Hope forgot some earlier deprivations and discomforts, or at least forgot the smart of them; but she never forgot that encounter at the Brookside station, which was to her her first close experience of the world's class distinctions. Neither had she ever forgotten the face of "that girl;" and when, coming out of her room at Miss Marr's, she looked down the hall and saw those big black eyes and that confident expression, she at once, in spite of the change in Dolly's height and breadth, recognized her.

But the five years had matured and educated Hope so much that the thrill which accompanied this recognition was not that shrinking of fear and dislike which had once overcome her. It was now the ordinary pang of repulsion that one feels in meeting something or somebody connected with what was once painful; and there was an expression of this feeling in her face, as she entered the library downstairs. Two or three girls were already assembled there; and as Hope responded warmly to their affectionate greetings, one of them exclaimed,—

"There! now you look like yourself. When you came in, you had a stand-off sort of air, and a little hard pucker between your eyes, as if you were expecting to confront an army of enemies."

Hope laughed; and presently the whole group were off on a regular girl chat, telling the story of their long summer vacation in the most animated manner. They were in the thick of this, when some one pushed the portiÈre aside, with the uncertain touch of a strange hand, and a strange voice asked constrainedly,—

"Is this a private sitting-room?"

The girls all turned to look at the speaker, and there was a half moment of silence. Then Kate Van der Berg answered politely,—

"Oh, no; it is the library, where we all come when we like."

"Oh, I didn't know where to go;" and Dolly came forward, trying to look indifferent and at her ease, and succeeding only in looking rather huffy and uncomfortable. The first glance she had received was not reassuring. The four girls whose chat she had interrupted were all dressed in the simplest manner, with no frills and furbelows anywhere; and that first glance of theirs at the new-comer's fine gown was a glance of surprise that there was no mistaking. The fact of it was, every girl of them, as she caught sight of Dolly, supposed for the moment that she was a guest of Miss Marr's; and when enlightened to the contrary by Dolly's own words, every girl of them involuntarily gave another glance of surprise.

They were well trained, however, and presently endeavored to make the new pupil feel at home; but it was rather up-hill work naturally. Luckily at this crisis, Miss Marr appeared, to adjust matters.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, glancing brightly at Dolly, "you found your way down all alone. I went to your room a little while ago; and as you were asleep, I didn't disturb you."

Then, with the same bright look and manner, she introduced the girls to Dolly, and stood talking with them all for a few minutes. When she turned to leave them, a general protest arose, Kate Van der Berg crying out,—

"Oh, no, no! don't go yet, Miss Marr! Just think, we haven't had a sight of you for three months, and we are positively hungry for you, aren't we, Hope?" appealing to Hope Benham, who was standing near her.

Hope made no reply in words, but she gave a quick upward look and smile which spoke more eloquently than any words. Dolly, observant of everything, saw not only this look and smile, but the answering look and smile in Miss Marr's eloquent face; and instantly a little sharp feeling of something akin to both jealousy and envy disturbed her. Not to lead off and take a first place was a new experience to Dolly, and she did not enjoy it. At home in Brookside or Boston she had always easily led off in this way, partly on account of her belonging to a family whose acquaintance was large, and partly on account of her dominant desire. But here she found herself for the first time amongst strangers, who knew nothing about her, and to whom she was of no importance. An uneasy sense of all this had begun to assail her before she left Miss Marr's little parlor. It deepened as she entered the library and met the three pairs of eyes turned upon her and her fine gown. It deepened still more as she saw that swift exchange of tender glances between Miss Marr and Hope; and the little imp of jealousy straightway sprang up with its unreasonable suggestions that she was not treated with sufficient consideration, that she was, in fact, neglected, and left out in the cold, when she should, as the new-comer, have received assiduous attention. That she, the daughter of the Hon. James Dering, should be thus coolly set aside! It was at this climax of her resentful feeling that Miss Marr happened to look across at her. She caught at once something of the true state of things,—not everything, but enough to show her that the girl felt awkward and uncomfortable.

"Poor thing!" she thought; "she doesn't get on well at all. I must ask Hope to help me with her. She, if anybody, will be able to make her feel easier and more at home."

There was no opportunity to speak with Hope then, for down the hall came tap, tapping, another little company of heels, and presently the portiÈre was flung aside, and a troop of girls entered, and rushing up to Miss Marr, claimed her attention, with their gay and affectionate greetings. No, no time then to speak to any one privately and specially, only time to mention Dolly's name,—"Miss Dorothea Dering, girls,"—only time for this before the clock rung out the hour of six; and at the last stroke Miss Marr turned her head from the girls, who were flocking about her, and looked back at Hope Benham.

"Hope, will you take Dorothea—Miss Dering—in to dinner?"

Miss Marr did not see the change in Hope's face,—the sudden stiffening, as it were, of every feature; but Kate Van der Berg saw it. It was the same kind of stiffness that she had noticed when Hope came into the library,—the rigid stiffness that she had called a "stand-off sort of air," and there was that little hard pucker again between the eyes.

"Hope will take her in to dinner and be as polite to her as a Chinese mandarin, but she won't 'take' to her in any other way," was Miss Kate's shrewd reflection.

The position was not an agreeable one to Hope, but she bethought herself that it might have been much more disagreeable if Dorothea had remembered. That she did not, was perfectly apparent. But if she had remembered! Hope shuddered to think of what might have happened if this had been the case. How, with that incapacity for understanding sensitive natures unlike her own, this girl would in some abrupt way have referred to that past painful encounter,—painful, not because of the different conditions of things at that time, but painful because of that first cruel knowledge of the world that had come through it.

Kate Van der Berg was not far wrong when she prophesied that Hope would be as polite as a Chinese mandarin to the new-comer. Hope was very polite. You could not have found fault with a single word or action. Even Dolly saw nothing to find fault with; but all this politeness did not warm and cheer her, did not make her feel any easier or more at home. In sitting there at the dinner-table in the bright light she felt more uncomfortable than ever, for by this searching light she saw now very clearly the extreme plainness of each girl's attire; and as she caught every now and then the quick observing glance of one and another, she saw that she had made a great mistake,—that, instead of producing a fine impression by her fine dress, she had produced an unfavorable one, and was being silently criticised as rather loud and—oh, horror!—vulgar.

Miss Marr, looking across the table, did not fail to see that Hope was not so successful as usual in charming away the awkwardness and discomfort of a stranger. Presently she caught two or three little set speeches of Hope's,—polite little speeches, but perfectly mechanical,—and said to herself as Kate Van der Berg had said, "Hope doesn't take to her."

It was generally the custom for the girls to meet in the library before and after dinner for a few minutes' social chat; but on this night most of the girls, having just arrived, excused themselves, and went directly upstairs to unpack their trunks and settle their various belongings. Hope was very glad to make her excuses with the others, and escape to her room, that for a few days she was to occupy alone. She was busily engaged in putting the last things in their places, when there came a light tap on the door, and to her "Come in," Miss Marr entered, with a little apology for the lateness of her call, and an admiring exclamation for Hope's quick dexterity in arranging her belongings. After this she sat a moment in silence, with rather a perplexed look on her face; then suddenly she broke the silence.

"Hope," she said, "I am afraid I gave you an unpleasant task to perform to-night."

Hope reddened.

"You didn't find it easy, I perceived, to talk with the new pupil."

"N—o, I didn't," faltered Hope.

"She was hard to get on with, wasn't she?"

"I—I don't know. I—talked to her—I paid her what attention I could."

"But she was disagreeable to you?"

"She didn't intend to be—I—I didn't fancy her, Miss Marr."

Miss Marr looked the surprise she felt. She had never known Hope to take such a sudden dislike.

"I didn't fancy her, and I suppose I was stiff with her; but I tried—I tried to be polite to her."

"Of course you did. I'm not finding fault with you, dear. You did what you could to help me, and it was kind of you. I'm sorry you feel as you do, but don't trouble any more about it; it will wear off, I dare say; and now make haste and go to bed,—you look tired."

"Miss Marr," and Hope put a detaining hand on Miss Marr's arm. "What is it—what else is it you were thinking of—of asking me to do?"

"Never mind, dear."

"Tell me, please, Miss Marr."

"I was going to ask you to let Miss Dering occupy the other bed in your room to-night. Some one left the water running before dinner in the room over hers, and the bed and carpet are drenched; but I will make some other arrangement for her now,—you sha'n't be troubled with her."

"But the other rooms are full."

"Yes, but I will have a cot put up in the little parlor. Good-night;" and with a soft touch of her hand on Hope's cheek, Miss Marr left the room. She was half-way down the hall when Hope ran after her.

"Miss Marr, Miss Marr, don't—don't put up the bed in the little parlor. It is nine o'clock. Let her come to my room."

"My dear, go back; don't think any more about the matter."

"No, no, let her come to my room, please, Miss Marr."

Miss Marr looked at the pleading face uplifted to hers, and understood. At least she understood enough to see that Hope was already accusing herself of being disobliging and selfish, and that she would be far more uncomfortable now if left alone than she would be in sharing her room with the obnoxious new comer; and so without more hesitation she yielded the point, with a "Very well, dear; it shall be as you say," and went on down the hall to Dorothea.