and breeding of the new-comer in her class. Everything about the other
child, from her heavy black hair, patrician nose, and large dark eyes
to her exquisitely formed hands, white and well-cared-for, seemed to
Sylvia perfection itself.

During recess she advanced to the new-comer, saying, with a bright
smile: "Aren't you thirsty? Don't you want me to show you where the
pump is?" She put out her hand as she spoke and took the slim white
fingers in her own rough little hand, leading her new schoolmate along
in silence, looking at her with an open interest.

She had confidently expected amicable responsiveness in the other
little girl, because her experience had been that her own frank
friendliness nearly always was reflected back to her from others; but
she had not expected, or indeed ever seen, such an ardent look of
gratitude as burned in the other's eyes. She stopped, startled,
uncomprehending, as though her companion had said something
unintelligible, and felt the slim fingers in her hand close about her
own in a tight clasp. "You are so very kind to show me this pump,"
breathed Camilla shyly. The faint flavor of a foreign accent which,
to Sylvia's ear, hung about these words, was the final touch of
fascination for her. That instant she decided in her impetuous,
enthusiastic heart that Camilla was the most beautiful, sweetest,
best-dressed, loveliest creature she had ever seen, or would ever see
in her life; and she bent her back joyfully in the service of her
ideal. She would not allow Camilla to pump for herself, but flew to
the handle with such energy that the white water gushed out in a
flood, overflowing Camilla's cup, spattering over on her fingers, and
sparkling on the sheer white of her hemstitched cuffs. This made them
both laugh, the delicious silly laugh of childhood.

Already they seemed like friends. "How do you pronounce your name?"
Sylvia asked familiarly.

"Cam-eela Fingal," said the other, looking up from her cup, her upper
lip red and moist. She accented the surname on the last syllable.

"What a perfectly lovely name!" cried Sylvia. "Mine is Sylvia
Marshall."

"That's a pretty name too," said Camilla, smiling. She spoke less
timidly now, but her fawn-like eyes still kept their curious
expression, half apprehension, half hope.

"How old are you?" asked Sylvia.

"Eleven, last November."

"Why, my birthday is in November, and I was eleven too!" cried Sylvia.
"I thought you must be older--y