into the
papers, and made a great stir," explained the first speaker to Polly,
who looked mystified.

"How dreadful!" cried Polly.

"I think it was fun. She was only sixteen, and he was perfectly
splendid; and she has plenty of money, and every one talked about it;
and when she went anywhere, people looked, you know, and she liked it;
but her papa is an old poke, so he 's sent them all away. It 's too bad,
for she was the jolliest thing I ever knew."

Polly had nothing to say to lively Miss Belle; but Fanny observed, "I
like to read about such things; but it 's so inconvenient to have it
happen right here, because it makes it harder for us. I wish you could
have heard my papa go on. He threatened to send a maid to school with me
every day, as they do in New York, to be sure I come all right. Did you
ever?" "That 's because it came out that Carrie used to forge excuses in
her mamma's name, and go promenading with her Oreste, when they thought
her safe at school. Oh, was n't she a sly minx?" cried Belle, as if she
rather admired the trick.

"I think a little fun is all right; and there 's no need of making a
talk, if, now and then, some one does run off like Carrie. Boys do
as they like; and I don't see why girls need to be kept so dreadfully
close. I 'd like to see anybody watching and guarding me!" added another
dashing young lady.

"It would take a policeman to do that, Trix, or a little man in a tall
hat," said Fanny, slyly, which caused a general laugh, and made Beatrice
toss her head coquettishly.

"Oh, have you read 'The Phantom Bride'? It 's perfectly thrilling! There
's a regular rush for it at the library; but some prefer 'Breaking a
Butterfly.' Which do you like best?" asked a pale girl of Polly, in one
of the momentary lulls which occurred.

"I have n't read either."

"You must, then. I adore Guy Livingston's books, and Yates's. 'Ouida's'
are my delight, only they are so long, I get worn out before I 'm
through."

"I have n't read anything but one of the Muhlbach novels since I came. I
like those, because there is history in them," said Polly, glad to have
a word to say for herself.

"Those are well enough for improving reading; but I like real exciting
novels; don't you?"

Polly was spared the mortification of owning that she had never read
any, by the appearance of Monsieur, a gray-headed old Frenchman, who
went through his task with the resigned air of one who was used to being
the victim of