Peggy saw, or fancied she saw, glances of amused contempt thrown at her poor little neighbour.
"All the more reason," she thought, "why I should make friends with her."
"Do you—did you come yesterday, or the day before?" she asked, as cheerfully as she could.
"Oh! yes, I think so!" was the reply, in a gasping whisper. This was not very encouraging, but Peggy proceeded.
"Did you have far to come? I came all the way from Ohio."
"Oh! no, I don't think so!"
"It took me all day to get here. It's horrid travelling alone, don't you think so?"
"Oh! I—don't know! I never travelled."
On the whole, the girl seemed so distressed that Peggy felt it would be a cruel kindness to pursue the conversation. "I needn't talk to the others," she said to herself. "They came before I did; they can talk to me if they want to."
But now supper was over, and the girls rose with a whirr, like a flock of pigeons, and fluttered out of the dining-room. Peggy looked longingly after Bertha Haughton; indeed, Bertha seemed to be lingering, looking for her; but at that moment two or three girls swooped down upon the junior, and began a hubbub of questions. Peggy felt all her shyness rushing back in a flood. Turning to flee, she almost fell over little Miss Parkins, who was hastening on her way, too. "Come!" said Peggy. "We are both strange cats; suppose we stay together! What happens now, do you know? This is my first evening here. It's awfully queer, isn't it?"