She discovered that there were a number of pretty little girls and innocent, honest little boys, whose mothers had made pathetic attempts to send them clean and whole to school.  She also discovered that some of them had reasonably quick intelligence, especially one girl, by name Jessy Ramsey.  She was of a distant branch of the old Ramseys, and had a high, spiritual forehead, from which the light hair was smoothly combed in damp ridges, and a delicate face with serious, intent blue eyes, under brows strangely pent for a child.  Maria straightway took a fancy to Jessy Ramsey.  When, on her way home at night, the child timidly followed in her wake, she reached out and grasped her tiny hand with a warm pressure.

“You learned your lessons very well, Jessy,” she said, and the child’s face, as she looked up at her, grew positively brilliant.

When Maria got home she enthused about her.

“There is one child in the school who is a wonder,” said she.

“Who?” asked Aunt Maria.  She was in her heart an aristocrat.  She considered the people of Amity—­that is, the manufacturing people (she exempted her own brother as she might have exempted a prince of the blood drawn into an ignoble pursuit from dire necessity)—­as distinctly below par.  Maria’s school was across the river.  She regarded all the children below par.  “I do wish you could have had a school this side of the river,” she added, “but Miss Norcross has held the other ten years, and I don’t believe she will ever get married, she is so mortal homely, and they like her.  Who is the child you are talking about?”

“Her name is Ramsey, Jessy Ramsey.”

Aunt Maria sniffed.  “Oh!” said she.  “She belongs to that Eugene Ramsey tribe.”

“Any relation to the Ramseys next door?” asked Maria.

“About a tenth cousin, I guess,” replied Aunt Maria.  “There was a Eugene Ramsey did something awful years ago, before I was born, and he got into state-prison, and then when he came out he married as low as he could.  They have never had anything to do with these Ramseys.  They are just as low as they can be—­always have been.”

“This little girl is pretty, and bright,” said Maria.

Aunt Maria sniffed again.  “Well, you’ll see how she’ll turn out,” she said.  “Never yet anything good came of that Eugene Ramsey tribe.  That child’s father drinks like a fish, and he’s been in prison, and her mother’s no better than she should be, and she’s got a sister that everybody talks about—­has ever since she was so high.”

“This seems like a good little girl,” said Maria.

“Wait and see,” said Aunt Maria.