e always hoped that when she was
grown up she might have a chance of emulating some of her book heroines,
and doing a golden deed which the world should remember. In the meantime
many little ordinary, commonplace, everyday duties were left undone. She
was not thoughtful for others, and was content to let Aunt Barbara do
everything for her, without troubling herself to consider what she might
offer in return.

Miss Sherbourne was not blind, and saw only too clearly that the girl
was passing through a selfish phase.

"I've seen it often enough in others of her age," she thought. "They are
so sweet while they are little children, and then suddenly they lose all
their pretty, childish ways, and become brusque and pert and
uncompromising. I suppose they are struggling after their own
individualities and independence, but it makes them ruthless to others.
At present Dorothy is rather inclined to rebel against authority, and to
assert herself in many directions. She needs most careful leading and
management. She's affectionate, at any rate, and that's something to go
upon."

Aunt Barbara could not guess all the trouble that was in Dorothy's mind.
Though the latter had never referred again to the story of her adoption,
the fact that she was a foundling continually rankled. She was so
sensitive on the point that she imagined many allusions or slights which
were not intended. It was extremely silly, but when the girls at school
talked about their brothers and sisters, she often believed they did so
purposely to make her feel her lack of relations. If two friends
whispered together, she would think they were speaking of her; and any
small discourtesy, however unintentional, she put down as an indication
that the others considered her inferior to themselves. She contrived to
make herself thoroughly miserable with these ideas, and they had the
unfortunate effect of causing her to be even more abrupt and brusque
than before. Sometimes one traitor thought would even steal in, and she
would question whether Aunt Barbara really loved her as truly as if she
had been her own flesh and blood; but this was such a monstrous and
unjust suspicion that Dorothy would thrust it from her in horror at
having ever entertained it.

One pleasure that she had at Avondale was her friendship with Alison
Clarke. Owing to their daily companionship in the train, she had managed
to keep Alison pretty much to herself, and she watched over her with
jealou