"Miss Montfort!" said the Principal.

Peggy looked about her.

"I wonder if it's another cousin!" she said to herself. "It can't be, or Margaret would have known. Dear Margaret! now if she were only here, she could answer, and everybody would—"

"Miss Montfort!" said the Principal again, rather sharply.

"Isn't that your name?" whispered the girl who sat beside Peggy. "You'll have to answer, you know!"

Peggy started violently, and, looking up, met the Principal's eyes bent upon her. She struggled to her feet, feeling herself one blush from head to foot.

"I—I beg your pardon!" she faltered. "I didn't suppose—did you mean me?"

"You are Miss Montfort, are you not?"

"Oh, no! my cousins are both—that is,—I am just Peggy!"

There was a general titter, which the Principal checked with her pencil. "Young ladies!" she said in a warning tone. "Miss Montfort, you will have room No. 18, in the second corridor. You will be alone for the present."

"Oh, goody!" cried Peggy. "I mean—I'm ever so much obliged, thank you! Can I go now?"

"You may go now!" said the Principal, with a slight emphasis on the auxiliary.

Peggy stumbled over the foot of the girl next her, stepped on her own dress, tripped and came to her knees; picked herself up, with a sound of rending cloth, and finally got out of the room. This time the titter was not so easily checked. Peggy heard it rippling behind her as she fled. Even Miss Russell smiled as she rapped on the desk, and said one word to herself: "Untrained!"

But the girl who had sat beside Peggy rubbed her foot, which hurt a good deal, and said three words: "Poor little thing!"

No. 18 in the second corridor was a good-sized room, with two windows, one of them crossed on the outside by a fire-escape. Its present aspect was bare and unhomelike. The furniture consisted of an iron bedstead, a bureau and wash-stand, two chairs and a small table, all neat, but severely plain. The small square of carpet on the floor was a cold gray mixture with brown flowers on it. As Peggy Montfort looked about her, her heart sank. Was she to live here, to spend her days and nights here, for a whole endless year? She thought of her room at home, the great sunny room that she shared with her sister Jean. That had four windows, which were generally flung wide open; it was bare, because she and Jean liked to have plenty of space for gymnastics and wrestling; but that was a homelike, accustomed bareness, and they loved it. The great old four-post bed, with the round balls on which they loved to stand and perform circus tricks; the hammock slung across one end; the birds' nests and hawks' wings that adorned the walls in lieu of pictures; the antlers on which they hung their hats,—all these, or the thought of them, smote Peggy's stout heart, and sent it lower and lower down.

A maid knocked at the door: here was Miss Montfort's trunk, and would she unpack it, please, as the man would be coming again to take the empty trunks to the attic.

Peggy fell to work with ardour; here, at least, was something to do, in this strange, lonesome place. Arriving in the afternoon, a day or two after the beginning of school, her lessons were not to begin till the next morning.

Every dress, as she lifted it out, seemed a bit of home. Here was the triangular tear in her blue gingham, that Jean mended for her. One could hardly see it now! Dear Jean! she was neat-handed, and she had a little look of Margaret, the same soft hair and clear, quiet eyes. Here was her beloved bicycle skirt! Ah, there was something heavy in the pocket. Peggy explored, and drew forth an apple; that brought the tears, which were not very far off in the first place, and there was a good deal of salt in the apple as she ate it. She was so determined to make the best of everything, however, that she fought back the homesickness that was rising like a flood within her, and even managed to whistle a tune as she hung up her dresses and laid her stockings and handkerchiefs in the drawers. Then the shoe-bag must be hung against the closet door, the bag that Margaret had made and worked with her initials. Dearest Margaret! and here was the pincushion that Flora gave her, and the writing-case from Brother Hugh— Oh! she would write to him every week of her life, indeed she would! and so on and so on.

When the trunk was empty, the room looked less forlorn, though still pretty bare, for in Peggy's home little thought was given to anything not of practical use. The door was open, and happening to look up she caught a glimpse of the opposite room, on the other side of the narrow corridor. Here, too, the door stood open, and Peggy gazed open-eyed. A greater contrast could hardly be imagined. Here every available inch of wall-space was covered, with photographs, with Japanese fans and umbrellas, with posters and ribbons and flags. The room itself was choked, it seemed to Peggy, with chairs and tables, low tables covered with books, with cups and saucers, with knickknacks of every possible description. The whole effect was bewildering, but so gay and cheerful that Peggy sighed as she glanced back at her own bare white walls, at the bureau with its sober brush and comb, and the polished table where the writing-case lay in solitary state. She could not imagine living in a room like that other: she should stifle, and throw half the things out of the window; but it would be nice to have just a few more things! If she had only thought! Jean would have been glad to share the nests with her, and she could have had the rattlesnake skin, for had she not killed him herself? and then there were the fossils!

As Peggy meditated, steps came along the corridor, and halted at her door. A face peeped in. "May I come in?" asked the girl who had sat beside her in the class-room.

"Oh, do! I wish you would!" cried Peggy, eagerly. "I am so glad to see you! Sit down! I wanted to tell you—you were awfully kind to let me know she meant me. You see, I never was called Miss Montfort in my life before."

The girl sat down, and looked kindly at Peggy. She was a singular-looking girl, short and dark, with a curious effect of squareness in her thickset figure. Her face was plain, but one forgot that when one met the bright, intelligent gaze of her dark eyes.

"I ought to introduce myself!" she said. "My name is Bertha Haughton. I'm a neighbour of yours. No!" she added, laughing, as Peggy glanced involuntarily across the way. "That is Vanity Fair. I don't live there; I live in the Owls' Nest, some way down the corridor."

"Are all the rooms named?" asked Peggy, wondering.

"Most of them, on this corridor, at least. There's Vanity Fair and Rag Fair and the Smithsonian Institute on the other side—oh! and the China Shop and the Corner Grocery, too. And on this side is ours, the Owls' Nest, and Bedlam, and the Soap Factory, and the Nursery, and this room of yours."

"Oh, how interesting!" cried Peggy. "Do tell me what the names mean! Why Owls' Nest?"

"Oh, well, we got the name of studying hard, that's all. We don't study harder than ever so many others, but in our freshman year we—my chum and I—passed an examination that a good many failed in, and so we got the name of owls. That's really all! And the China Shop—well! Ada Bull had it last year, and she had a mania for china-painting; and that with the name, together, you see! Then there is the Soap Factory,—that is quite a story! you really want to hear it? well!

"You know we are not allowed to buy candy, or to have it sent to us. This girl's mother—I won't tell her name, she's in college now—was a very silly person, and she sent her a great box of chocolate, five or six pounds (though she knew the rules, mind you!), all done up like soap."

"Like soap!" repeated Peggy.

"Yes! the box was marked soap, and the chocolate was in little cakes, just like the little sample cakes of soap they send round, don't you know? and each cake wrapped up in paper, with 'Savon de Chocolat' stamped on it. It came from Paris, I believe.

"Well, of course the girl ought to have told Miss Russell at once, but she didn't. She kept the box under her bed, and told all the girls she knew; and of course they kept coming into her room all day long, and her pocket was always full, and, however it happened, at last Miss Russell suspected something. One day she came suddenly upon Margie in the hall, and saw that she was eating something, and asked her what it was. We're not allowed to eat going about the house, of course. Margie had just bitten off half a cake, and she had the other half in her hand, with the printed side up, 'Savon de Chocolat!' and she said 'Soap!'

"'Soap!' said Miss Russell.

"'Yes!' said Margie. 'Soap, Miss Russell.'

"The Principal looked at her a minute, and then I suppose she smelt the chocolate. She told her to wait, and then she went into her own room and came out with a little cake of tar soap—sample cake—that looked for all the world like chocolate soap.

"'Pray try this!' she said, as grave as a judge. 'I am sure you will find it excellent. I must insist upon your trying it, since you have a taste for soap.'

"Poor Margie! she had a good deal of pluck, and when she saw there was no help for it, she took a bite of the soap. But it was too horrid; she couldn't swallow it. She choked, and ran to her own room; the Principal followed her, and then the whole story came out. Margie never told us just what Miss Russell said. The chocolate was sent to the Orphans' Home next day, and she was a pretty serious girl for some time after. So now you know why that room is called the Soap Factory."

"That's a splendid story!" cried Peggy. "Why, I think this is great. Did this room have a name, too? I'm sure it must have! Do tell me what it is!"

A queer look crossed the dark girl's face.

"It has been called Broadway!" she said. "I hope it may be changed now." She hesitated, and was about to speak again, when two girls came along arm in arm.

"Look!" said Bertha Haughton. "There are your opposite neighbours, Vanity and Vexation of Spirit. I'll call them over and introduce them."

"Oh, please don't!" cried Peggy, under her breath, catching her companion's arm. But it was too late.

"V. V.," called Bertha, in her clear, hearty voice, "come and be introduced to Miss Montfort."

The girls turned and came forward, one eagerly, the other rather unwillingly.

"Miss Viola Vincent, Miss Vivia Varnham," said Bertha Haughton, "this is Miss—Peggy, did you say?—Miss Peggy Montfort."

Miss Varnham simply bowed, but Viola Vincent advanced with outstretched hand.

"How do you do?" she cried; and she lifted Peggy's hand to the level of her chin, and shook it gently from side to side. "Awfully glad to see you! It's been too perfectly horrid to have this room empty; hasn't it, V?"

"A great bore!" assented Miss Varnham, who looked thoroughly bored herself.

Both girls had entered the room, and were standing, looking about them. Peggy stood, too, feeling unspeakably shy and awkward, and not knowing what to say. Bertha Haughton gave her a quick, friendly glance, and made a slight motion with her head toward a chair. Peggy started, and coloured violently.

"I beg your pardon!" she stammered. "Won't you sit down? here are two chairs; and you and I can sit on the bed!" she turned to Miss Haughton with an air of relief; she seemed already an old friend.

Peggy's timid glances at the newcomers showed her that they belonged to a species unknown to her. Living on a great prairie farm, she had known no girls save her sisters and the two cousins with whom she had spent a happy summer at Fernley House, the home of her uncle, Mr. John Montfort, a year before.

But neither sisters nor cousins, nor Bertha Haughton herself, bore any resemblance to the two young women who now seated themselves on her two straight-backed chairs. Both were dressed in the extreme of the fashion, which was not a specially graceful one. Both wore their hair elaborately dressed, with a profusion of gold and silver pins, a passing fancy easily carried to extravagance. Both were pretty, and there was even a kind of likeness between them, though it vanished when one looked closely. Viola Vincent had limpid blue eyes, and long lashes which she had a way of dropping, as she had been told that they looked well on her cheek, which was clear and delicately tinted. She smiled a good deal, and in doing so showed a pretty dimple in one cheek. In spite of a certain affectation, Peggy thought her charming.

Vivia Varnham was less attractive, in spite of her bright hazel eyes and pretty fluffy hair; there was a supercilious lift to her eyebrows, an unamiable droop to the corners of her mouth. Peggy did not make this analysis; she only thought, "I shall not like her, I know I sha'n't!"

The girls chattered away without much regard to her, and she only half understood their talk.

"My dear! Have you heard?" This was from Viola to Bertha Haughton. She patted herself all over while she talked, now her hair, now her collar, now her blouse, little approving pats.

"You never hear anything, you owls! When is the Snowy coming back? She has been away forty years! I simply can't exist without her. Why, my dear, we are to have the straw-ride after all. Miss Russell says we may. Isn't it perf'ly fine?"

"Are you sure?" said Bertha Haughton, doubtfully. "You know last time she said we couldn't go again, because Grace acted so, pulling out the linch-pin and dropping us all into the road."

"My dear, I know! that's just it! The Goat went to her this morning and said she would stay at home and do double lessons if the rest of us could only go. Noble of the Goat, I call it; only it won't be half so much fun without her, and Billy gone, too. Oh, you can't possibly imagine how we miss Billy. How forlorn this room looks without all her pretty things!" She glanced about the room. "Perf'ly awful, isn't it?" she said.

Poor Peggy flushed scarlet. Bertha Haughton flashed her a glance of indignant sympathy.

"Billy had the room simply ridiculous!" she said, hastily. "Almost as bad as your toyshop, Vanity. I can't abide a frippy room!"

Viola Vincent opened her blue eyes wide. "What ruffled you up, Fluffy?" she said. "I didn't say anything about the Nest." Then, happening to glance at Peggy, she realised what she had said, and blushed a little herself.

"I'm sure I didn't mean anything!" she cried, with a little giggle. "Of course when Miss Montfort gets all her things out and arranged, it will be quite charming, I'm sure it will."

"I haven't any more things!" said honest Peggy. She managed to keep her voice steady, but the tears would come into her eyes, and she raged at herself.

"Oh, you'll accumulate them!" said good-natured Viola, who liked to have people comfortable, if it did not take too much trouble. "Won't she, V.? We had hardly anything when we came, had we, V.? Barns, my dear, were nothing to us, were they, V.?"

"Oh, of course not!" assented Miss Varnham; but her smile was so like a sneer, and her glance about the room so cold and contemptuous, that Peggy felt dislike hardening at her heart.

"What is all that noise in the entry?" exclaimed Bertha Haughton, anxious to change the conversation. "It sounds as if an elephant were coming to call."

Viola Vincent fluttered to the door, patting her waist affectionately as she went.

"My dear!" she cried, in high-pitched staccato tones. "It's a box, an express box. Oh, it's a perfect monster, a mammoth! Vi, this must be your dresses. Hurrah! we'll have a grand trying on."

Vivia Varnham looked out. A burly expressman was staggering forward with an enormous box, almost as big as a packing-case.

"Take it in there!" she said, imperiously, motioning across the corridor. "Put it down carefully, mind! Miss Varnham, is it?"

"No, miss," said the man, respectfully. "Miss Montfort!"

"Me!" cried Peggy, starting to her feet. "Oh, there must be some mistake. I wasn't—there's nothing coming for me."

"It must be for you!" said Bertha Haughton. "There is no other Miss Montfort in the school. Look at the address, and you may know the handwriting!"

Peggy looked. In a clear, bold hand was written:

"Oh!" she cried, clasping her hands. "It is for me! It's from Uncle John! Oh, what do you suppose—what can it be?"

"Bring it in here, please," said Bertha Haughton, quietly, to the man, who still stood balancing the box. "There! set it against the wall; thank you! Now," as the man departed, "we need a screw-driver. Have you one, Viola?"

"My dear! I had one, but the Goat broke it, using it for a step, you know, to get up to the next story. I use a can-opener now, but that will only do for small boxes. I don't have—well, State Houses, coming every day," she added, with a good-natured laugh, glancing at the great box.

Bertha Haughton ran to fetch a screw-driver from her room, and the other two girls moved toward the door. Vivia Varnham looked black. She had made sure the box was for her, and felt aggrieved at the stupid freshman who appropriated it. Viola Vincent, on the other hand, was delighted. "I'm awfully glad!" she said. "It's simply dandy, having a box come. Ta, ta! I hope it will be something perf'ly splendid, dresses and hats and all kinds of giddiness. I love giddiness! When you want to be giddy, you must come to us; the Owls are too worthy. There's Fluffy back again with the screw-driver. Ta again! Awfully glad!"

Peggy was half inclined to ask Viola to stay, but still it was rather a relief when the opposite door closed. Whatever the box contained, she could not have enjoyed it with those sharp, cold eyes of Viola Varnham looking on.

"Here is the screw-driver!" cried Bertha, out of breath with her flight along the corridor. "It's very strong, you need not be afraid of pressing on it. Can I do anything more to help you? If not, I must go. I hope it is something very nice indeed!"

"Go! you!" cried Peggy. "Oh, must you? Can't you stay and help me see what it is? It isn't any fun opening boxes alone," she added, piteously.

The girl does not live who would not rather unpack a box than eat her dinner. "If you are sure you want me," said Bertha. "I didn't want to be in the way, that was all."

"In the way! Oh, Miss Haughton! Why, you are the only friend I have here in this lonesome place."

"If I am going to be your friend, I am not going to be Miss Haughton another minute. Do you really want me to stay, Peggy?"

"I do, Bertha, indeed I do."

"Honour bright?"

"Honour brightest!"

"Hurrah, then! And now for the box!"