"I—I don't like them."
"You don't know anything about them. Ben and I see them half a dozen times a day, and walk to school with them, and they're nice and pretty and have some manners. You're awful country, Hanny!"
The little girl began to cry.
"Oh, what a baby you are! Well, I s'pose you can't help it! You're only eight, and I'm almost thirteen. And Lily Ludlow's nearly eleven. I suppose you do feel strange among girls so much older."
"It isn't that," sobbed the little girl. How could she get courage to tell him?
"Oh, Hanny, dear, don't cry." Jim's voice softened—they were nearing home. "See here, I'll ask father to take us to Tompkins Square on Sunday, and you shall paint out of my new box. There! and don't tell any one—don't say a word to Ben."
He kissed her and wiped her eyes with the end of her starchy apron. Jim was very coaxing and sweet when he tried.
"Joe's here," said Ben. "And he thought the wolves would eat you up if you went too far. He wants to see you."
Jim dropped down on the step. Hanny ran through the hall. They were using the back parlor as a sitting-room, and everybody seemed talking at once. Joe held out his arms and the little girl flew to them.
Then it came out that Joe had taken one of the prizes for a thesis, and he would shortly be a full fledged M.D. He was so jubilant and the rest were so happy that the little girl forgot all about her discomfort.