"Ridiculous! It is a shame!" said Fanny, turning up her nose.

"Who is he?" the Fairview girl asked.

"A poor fellow who lives on charity,--so poor that he wears his
grandfather's old clothes. We don't associate with him," was Fanny's
reply.

Paul heard it. His cheek flushed, but he stood there, determined to
brave it out. Azalia heard and saw it all. She stopped playing in the
middle of a measure, rose from her seat with her cheeks all aflame, and
walked towards Paul, extending her hand and welcoming him. "I am glad
you have come, Paul. We want you to wake us up. We have been half
asleep," she said.

The laughter ceased instantly, for Azalia was queen among them.
Beautiful in form and feature, her chestnut hair falling in luxuriant
curls upon her shoulders, her dark hazel eyes flashing indignantly, her
cheeks like blush-roses, every feature of her countenance lighted up by
the excitement of the moment, her bearing subdued the conspiracy at
once, hushing the derisive laughter, and compelling respect, not only
for herself, but for Paul. It required an effort on his part to keep
back the tears from his eyes, so grateful was he for her kindness.

"Yes, Paul, we want you to be our general, and tell us what to do," said
Daphne.

"Very well, let us have Copenhagen to begin with," he said.

The ice was broken. Daphne brought in her mother's clothes-line, the
chairs were taken from the room, and in five minutes the parlor was
humming like a beehive.

"I don't see what you can find to like in that disagreeable creature,"
said Philip to Azalia.

"He is a good scholar, and kind to his mother, and you know how
courageous he was when he killed that terrible dog," was her reply.

"I think he is an impudent puppy. What right has he to thrust himself
into good company, wearing his grandfather's old clothes?" Philip
responded, dangling his eye-glass and running his soft hand through his
hair.

"Paul is poor; but I never have heard anything against his character,"
said Azalia.

"Poor folks ought to be kept out of good society," said Philip.

"What do you say to that picture?" said Azalia, directing his attention
towards a magnificent picture of Franklin crowned with laurel by the
ladies of the court of France, which hung on the wall. "Benjamin
Franklin was a poor boy, and dipped candles for a living; but he became
a great man."

"Dipped candles! Why, I never heard of that before," said Philip,
looking at the engraving