"The girl who was thrown out of the carriage last night—the queen of the school? I may be thankful she was not badly hurt, poor dear."
Janet did not say anything. Bridget turned to the window, and began to beat a tattoo on the pane with her knuckles.
"Look here," she said again, after a pause, "now that you are here, what do you want? It's good-natured of you to come, of course, but I can't make out what good you are likely to do."
"Yes. I shall do plenty of good," said Janet, in her assured tones. "I am going to give you some advice which you will be very glad to take."
"Indeed, then, you are finely mistaken. I'll be nothing of the kind."
"You've not heard what I'm going to say, yet. Won't you sit down and let us be comfortable?"
"You can sit if you fancy it. I prefer standing."
"Very well; we shall both be pleased. This is a very comfortable chair."
Janet sank back in it, and raised her placid face to Bridget's. The two girls were in all particulars contrasts. Biddy's curls were now a mop; a wild, aggressive, almost disreputable looking mop. Her white dress was draggled and crumpled, her cheeks were deeply flushed, her eyes flashed ominous fire, her proud lips took many haughty and defiant curves. Janet, in contradistinction to all this, was the soul of neat commonplace. Her pale blue cambric frock fitted her neat figure like a glove. She had white linen cuffs at her wrists; her little hands were exquisitely clean; her fair face looked the essence of peace. Her neat, smooth head of light hair shone like satin.