re feeling abused because she's got to go to a Young Ladies'
Seminary! If you don't believe me, turn square round and look at
her."

The Other Girl was sitting sidewise on her seat to give her a
slanting view from under her shabby sailor of the trim little
tailor-made figure on the back seat. She had been watching it ever
since the train drew out of Douglas. She had recognized it at once as
one of the five trim, girlish figures that had got on at the same
place the previous spring. School-books and schoolgirl nonsense tell
their own story, and, besides, hadn't they always got off at Centre
Town, and wasn't there a Young Ladies' Seminary there? You could put
two and two together if you _didn't_ study arithmetic--if your name
_was_ only Diantha Leavitt and you worked in the East Centre Town
rubber factory, instead of going to school.

The Other Girl's admiring eyes had taken in all the dainty details of
gloves, tiny chatelaine watch, and neat school satchel out of which
protruded green and brown books. With a fierce little gesture the
Other Girl had slid her own hands under her threadbare jacket. They
were reddened and rough.

"I should like to know if she can smell rubber clear back there," she
thought. "You ought to go ahead to the front o' the car, Diantha
Leavitt. Don't you know dainty folks don't like the smell of rubber?
Oh, my goodness--goodness--goodness! I wish I could get out o' the
reach of it for one day in my life! _One day_--doesn't seem like
asking a great deal, does it?"

She straightened and turned her back to the dainty girl of luxury on
the rear seat. She would not look again. But straight ahead, on the
very front of the car, her gloomy, roaming gaze was stayed. What was
this she saw? The pretty, plaintive face of the schoolgirl, in the
mirror! She could not get away from it. The two pairs of blue eyes
seemed to be looking directly into each other, but the Other Girl's
were full of angry tears. The Other Girl sat up, straight and
defiant, and stared ahead unswervingly. Mentally she was taking a
scornful inventory of her own shabbiness.

"My feather is perfectly straight;--it rained Saturday night, and I
haven't had any time to curl it over the poker. It doesn't belong on
a sailor, anyway, but it's better than a hole right into your hair!
It covers up. My jacket collar is all fringy round the edges, and the
top button is split. My necktie has been washed four times too
often--ugh! I smell rubber!"