The families which supplied the Washington Street School being quite stationary in their self-owned houses, few new pupils entered during the school-year.  There was, consequently, quite a sensation on the day in the middle of March when the two Fingal girls entered, Camilla in the “Fifth A” grade, where Sylvia was, and Cecile in the third grade, in the next seat to Judith’s.  The girls themselves were so different from other children in school that their arrival would have excited interest even at the beginning of the school-year.  Coming, as they did, at a time when everybody knew by heart every detail of every one else’s appearance from hair-ribbon to shoes, these two beautiful exotics, in their rich, plain, mourning dresses were vastly stared at.  Sylvia’s impressionable eyes were especially struck by the air of race and breeding of the new-comer in her class.  Everything about the other child, from her heavy black hair, patrician nose, and large dark eyes to her exquisitely formed hands, white and well-cared-for, seemed to Sylvia perfection itself.

During recess she advanced to the new-comer, saying, with a bright smile:  “Aren’t you thirsty?  Don’t you want me to show you where the pump is?” She put out her hand as she spoke and took the slim white fingers in her own rough little hand, leading her new schoolmate along in silence, looking at her with an open interest.

She had confidently expected amicable responsiveness in the other little girl, because her experience had been that her own frank friendliness nearly always was reflected back to her from others; but she had not expected, or indeed ever seen, such an ardent look of gratitude as burned in the other’s eyes.  She stopped, startled, uncomprehending, as though her companion had said something unintelligible, and felt the slim fingers in her hand close about her own in a tight clasp.  “You are so very kind to show me this pump,” breathed Camilla shyly.  The faint flavor of a foreign accent which, to Sylvia’s ear, hung about these words, was the final touch of fascination for her.  That instant she decided in her impetuous, enthusiastic heart that Camilla was the most beautiful, sweetest, best-dressed, loveliest creature she had ever seen, or would ever see in her life; and she bent her back joyfully in the service of her ideal.  She would not allow Camilla to pump for herself, but flew to the handle with such energy that the white water gushed out in a flood, overflowing Camilla’s cup, spattering over on her fingers, and sparkling on the sheer white of her hemstitched cuffs.  This made them both laugh, the delicious silly laugh of childhood.

Already they seemed like friends.  “How do you pronounce your name?” Sylvia asked familiarly.

“Cam-eela Fingal,” said the other, looking up from her cup, her upper lip red and moist.  She accented the surname on the last syllable.

“What a perfectly lovely name!” cried Sylvia.  “Mine is Sylvia Marshall.”