Plainly dressed to severity, her face more forbidding than usual from the fact that she felt shy but would not show it, Linnæa sat on a chair near the door, and the other girls did their duty by staring at her unmercifully.
One governess was in the room and, unfortunately, not a very judicious one. After a few minutes had passed, she looked over at the newcomer and said—
“Now, little girl, don’t look so sulky. You must put on a nice pleasant face, so that your companions will like you.”
It was an unhappy remark. Some of the more forward girls tittered, and the forlorn, lonely child felt even more isolated and friendless than she had felt in her aunt’s house.
“Come away over here,” said the governess again, “and tell us how old you are and where you come from.”
“From the Ark, I should guess!” whispered one girl, who was supposed to be witty by some—herself in particular.
Linnæa was forthwith subjected to a string of small questions, which she answered mostly in monosyllables. The whispered remark had been overheard by the sensitive child, and her heart had begun to harden towards girls and governess alike.
Some of the pupils made advances at first, but Linnæa met them all with a suspicion and distrust that chilled and disappointed. Therefore, incredible as it may seem, at the age of sixteen, and after seven years at Meldon Hall, Linnæa March was utterly without a friend in the school.