e in the same house; they say misery loves company.
Here I was about to ask you why Margaret is unhappy, and I find you
looking out of Margaret's eyes. Are you unhappy, too?"

"No, Aunt Fanny, I'm not unhappy; I'm angry. I don't see why girls
should become grown. Why, I was always in a good humour until I put on
long skirts, and then my troubles began. I can neither run nor play; I
must be on my dignity all the time for fear some one will raise her
hands and say, 'Do look at that Nan Dorrington! Isn't she a bold piece?'
I never was so tired of anything in my life as I am of being grown. I
never will get used to it."

"Oh, you'll get in the habit of it after awhile, child," said Miss
Fanny. "But I never would have believed that Nan Dorrington would care
very much for what people said."

"Oh, it isn't on my account that I care," remarked Nan, with a toss of
her head, "but I don't want my friends to have their feelings hurt by
what other people say. If there is anything in this world I detest it is
dignity--I don't mean Margaret's kind, because she was born so and can't
help it--but the kind that is put on and taken off like a summer bonnet.
If I can't be myself, I'll do like Leese Clopton did, I'll go into a
convent."

"Well, you certainly would astonish the nuns when you began to cut some
of your capers," Miss Fanny declared.

"Am I as bad as all that? Tell me honestly, Aunt Fanny, now while I am
in the humour to hear it, what do I do that is so terrible?"

"Honestly, Nan, you do nothing terrible at all. Not even Miss Puella
Gillum could criticise you."

"Why, Miss Puella never criticises any one. She's just as sweet as she
can be."

"Well, she's an old maid, you know, and old maids are supposed to be
critical," said Miss Fanny. "I'll tell you where all the trouble is,
Nan: you are sensitive, and you have an idea that you must behave as
some of the other girls do--that you must hold your hands and your head
just so. If you would be yourself, and forget all about etiquette and
manners, you'd satisfy everybody, especially yourself."

"Why, that is what worries me now; I do forget all about those things,
and then, all of a sudden, I realise that I am acting like a child, and
a very noisy child at that, and then I'm afraid some one will make
remarks. It is all very miserable and disagreeable, and I wish there
wasn't a long skirt in the world."

"Well, when you get as old as I am," sighed Miss Fanny, "you won't mi