Neither Ida nor Rose were as happy in school, as Mary and Jenny.  Both of them fretted about the rules, which they were obliged to observe, and both of them disliked and dreaded their portion of the work.  Ida, however, was happier than Rose, for she was fonder of study, and one day when particularly interested in her lessons, she said to Mary, that she believed she should be tolerably contented, were it not for the everlasting washing.

Looking up a moment after, she saw that Mary had disappeared.  But she soon returned, exclaiming, “I’ve fixed it.  It’s all right.  I told her I was a great deal stronger than you, that I was used to washing, and you were not, and that it made your side ache; so she consented to have us exchange, and after this you are to dust for me, and I am to wash for you.”

Ida disliked washing so much, that she raised no very strong objections to Mary’s plan, and then when she found how great a kindness had really been shown her, she tried hard to think of some way in which to repay it.  At last, George Moreland, to whom she had written upon the subject, suggested something which met her views exactly.  Both Ida and her aunt had told George about Mary, and without hinting that he knew her, he immediately commenced making minute inquiries concerning her, of Ida, who communicated them to Mary, wondering why she always blushed so deeply, and tried to change the conversation.  In reply to the letter in which Ida had told him of Mary’s kindness, George wrote, “You say Miss Howard is very fond of music, and that there is no teacher connected with the institution.  Now why not give her lessons yourself?  You can do it as well as not, and it will be a good way of showing your gratitude.”

Without waiting to read farther, Ida ran in quest of Mary, to whom she told what George had written.  “You don’t know,” said she, “how much George asks about you.  I never saw him so much interested in any one before, and half the girls in Boston are after him, too.”

“Poor fellow, I pity him,” said Mary; and Ida continued, “Perhaps it seems foolish in me to say so much about him, but if you only knew him, you wouldn’t wonder.  He’s the handsomest young man I ever saw, and then he’s so good, so different from other young men, especially Henry Lincoln.”

Here the tea bell rang, and the conversation was discontinued.

When Rose heard that Mary was taking music lessons, she exclaimed to a group of girls with whom she was talking, “Well, I declare, beggars taking music lessons!  I wonder what’ll come next?  Why, you’ve no idea how dreadfully poor she is.  Our summer residence is near the alms-house, and when she was there I saw a good deal of her.  She had scarcely any thing fit to wear, and I gave her one of my old bonnets, which I do believe she wore for three or four years.”

“Why Rose Lincoln,” said Jenny, who had overheard all, and now came up to her sister, “how can you tell what you know is not true?”