The Old Girls’ Welcome to the New was the chief topic of conversation that morning.  It was to take place that night, and as the invitations would not be delivered until the opening of the first mail, every Freshman was in a flutter of expectancy, wondering who her escort was to be.

“I hope mine will be either Cornie Dean or Dorene Derwent,” confided Mary to Betty in an undertone, “because I know them so well.  But if I should have to choose a stranger I’d rather have that quiet girl in gray, over at Miss Chilton’s table.  She looks like a girl in an English story-book.  I mean the one that Ethelinda is talking to now.  And I wish you’d notice how she is talking,” Mary continued in amazement.  “Did you ever see more animation?  She’s making up for lost time.”

“Oh, that’s Evelyn Berkeley,” answered Betty.  “She is English; a distant relative of Madam’s with such an interesting history.  The year I finished school she came in the middle of the spring term, such a sad-looking creature all in black.  Her mother had just died, and her father, who only a short time before had succeeded to the title and estates, sent her over here to be with Madam for awhile.  He didn’t know what to do with her, as she seemed to be going into a decline.  She isn’t like the same girl now.”

“Oh, is she a real ’My-lady-the-carriage-waits’?” asked Mary, her eyes wide with interest.

“Yes, she belongs to a very ancient and noble family,” said Betty, amused at her enthusiasm.  “But I thought you were such a little American-revolution patriot that you would not be impressed by anything like that.”

“I’m not impressed, exactly,” Mary answered stoutly, “but this is the first girl I ever saw who is own daughter to a lord, and it does add a flavour to one’s interest in her.  Oh, I see, now. That is why Ethelinda is so friendly,” she added, with sudden intuition of the truth.  “She thinks that Miss Berkeley is somebody worth cultivating, and that I’m not.”

“Maybe it’s a case of ‘birds of a feather,’” said Elise, who had heard part of the conversation.  “Ethelinda aspires to a family tree and a coat-of-arms, too.  I saw her box of stationery spilled out over your table when I was in your room yesterday, and it had quite an imposing crest on the paper—­a unicorn or griffin or something, pawing away at a crown.”

Mary pursed her lips together thoughtfully.  “That might explain it.  Maybe she thinks I’m only a sort of wild North American Indian because our place is named Ware’s Wigwam, and that it is beneath her dignity to be intimate with her inferiors.  But if that is what is the matter, she’s just a snob, and can’t be very sure of her own position.”

“She is only sixteen,” Betty reminded her, “even if she does look so mature and imposing.  I have an idea that the way she has been brought up is responsible for her attitude now.  It has given her a false standard of values.  Now, Mary, here is a chance for you to do some real missionary work, and teach her that ’the rank is but the guinea’s stamp,’ and that we’re all pure gold, ‘for a’ that and a’ that,’ no matter if we are not members of the British peerage.”