“Very well,” said Miss Parker, with a smile. “I welcome Prudy Parlin’s sister; and if she is half as good as Prudy, I shall never like to part with her to go up stairs.”
Prudy slid her hand into Miss Parker’s. She remembered how that warm-hearted young lady had kissed her with tears when she left the primary department.
“O, I think she’ll be good, Miss Parker,” said Prudy, in a low voice, while Dotty was looking out of the window; “only she never went to school in her life, and if she doesn’t sit very still, I hope you’ll try to excuse her.”
Miss Parker gave the little pleader a hearty embrace.
“Good by Dotty,” said Prudy. “I must leave you now. Remember, when you go out to read, you mustn’t twist your front hair.”
“I never thought of twisting it, or sneezing either. Just’s if—”
But Prudy was gone. Presently the bell rang, and school had begun. Miss Parker gave Dotty a seat beside a little girl in a dark-blue frock, who had eyes the color of gray stocking-yarn, and a dent in her chin so deep that Dotty was rather mortified, for it eclipsed both hers entirely.
“But, then, she isn’t pretty, if she does have such a ’normous dimple, for there’s a wart on her thumb, and I don’t like warts.”
The little girl’s name was Sarah Penny, usually called Tate. She looked at the new scholar with some curiosity. Their eyes met, and then Tate smiled, showing some irregular little teeth. Dotty smiled too, making her dimples as deep as possible. She watched Tate’s chin, and was pleased to observe that the dent never moved. After this silent but friendly greeting, the two children felt a little acquainted.