"What is your name?" asked Chrystobel, still with a haughty air, but considerably pleased with the open admiration of her companion.
"Tabitha Catt," came the slow answer.
"What an exceedingly queer cognomen!"
Tabitha caught her breath, then said slowly, "It isn't very pretty, perhaps; but—one gets used to their name so they don't mind it."
"Well, I must say if I had such an odd name as that I would change it. I never could get used to it; but then, some people haven't as sensitive natures as others."
Tabitha made no reply, but with a queer sense of rage in her heart she walked across to the dresser and bent to open the lower drawer where she had carefully laid the few things her small grip had contained.
"Here," exclaimed Chrystobel sharply, "don't touch that drawer! That is mine. How dare you!" For Tabitha in her start of surprise had jerked the drawer free from the dresser and it fell with a bang in the middle of the floor, disclosing to view a disorderly array of garments which did not belong to Tabitha.
"What have you done with my things that were in there?" demanded the black-eyed girl indignantly. "I was here first and had the right to make first choice. It makes no difference to me, though; the drawers are just the same size and I would as soon have the other."
Without waiting for a reply, she reached for the upper drawer, but before she had a chance to open it, Chrystobel caught and held it shut as she cried angrily, "My things are in there, too. What did you expect—to keep the whole dresser for yourself?"
"That seems to be what you want," retorted Tabitha, thoroughly enraged. "What have you done with my things?"