“I thought I had a relative in Washington.  I had heard so.  I failed to find her so—­so I found this shop, kept by a woman who came from my county, and she gave me a chance to wait shop,” said the English girl wearily.

“Mrs. Staples lets me knit these blouses to help out, for she cannot pay large wages.  The trade isn’t much, you see.  This one, I am sure, will look lovely on you.  I hope the price is not too much?”

“Not a bit, if it will fit me and I have that much money in my purse,” replied Betty, who for a girl of her age had a good deal of money to spend quite as she pleased.

She opened her bag hastily and took out her purse.  The purse was made of cut steel beads and, as Betty often said, “everything stuck to it!” Something clung to it now as she drew it forth, but neither Betty nor the shopgirl saw the dangling twist of tissue paper.

“And I’ll buy that other one you are knitting,” Betty hurried to say as she shook the purse and dug into it for the silver as well as the bills she had left after her morning’s shopping.  “I know that pretty blue will just look dear on a friend of mine.”

She was busy with her money, and the English girl looked on hopefully.  So neither saw the twist of tissue paper fly off the dangling fringe of beads and land with a soft little “plump” on the floor by the counter.

“Dear me!” breathed the shopgirl, in reply to Betty’s promise, “I shall like that.  It will help a good bit—­and everything so high in this country.  A dollar, as you say, goes hardly anywhere!  And this one will fit you beautifully.  You can see yourself.”

“Of course it will.  Do it up at once,” cried the excited Betty.  “Here is the money.  Twelve dollars.  I was afraid I didn’t have enough.  And be sure and keep that blue one for my friend.  Maybe she will come for it herself, so give me a card or something so she can find the place.  Shall she ask for you?”

“If you please,” and the English girl ran to write a card.  She brought it back with the neatly made parcel of the over-blouse and slipped it into Betty Gordon’s hand.  The latter thanked her and looked swiftly at the name the other had written.

“Good-bye, Ida Bellethorne,” she said, smiling.  “What a fine name!  I hope I can sell some more blouses for you.  I’ll try.”

The shopgirl made a little bow and the silvery bell jangled again as Betty opened the door.  Betty looked back at the English girl, and the latter looked after Betty.  They were both interested, much interested, the one in the other, and for reasons that neither suspected.  Ida Bellethorne was not much like the girls Betty knew.  She seemed even more sedate than the seniors at Shadyside where Betty had attended school with the Littell girls since the term had opened in September.

Ida Bellethorne was not, however, in any such happy condition as the girls Betty Gordon knew.  She might have told the warm-hearted customer who had bought the over-blouse a story that would indeed have spurred Betty’s interest to an even greater degree.  But the English girl was naturally of a secretive disposition, and she was among strangers.