Anne usually watched people very closely with her bright, soft, hazel eyes.  Now, however, she was too frightened and miserable to raise her eyes above Mademoiselle’s satin slippers, even to look at Miss Morris who came in to take charge of the new pupil.

“This is my borrowed daughter, for the winter at least,” Mrs. Patterson explained, with her arm around the shy, excited child.  “You will find her studious and you will find her obedient.  I shall expect you to give her back to me next summer a very learned young lady.”

Anne clung to Mrs. Patterson’s hand like a drowning man to a raft.  “Don’t leave me,” she whispered imploringly.  “Please take me back with you.  Oh, please!”

“Dearie, I wish I could,” her friend answered with a caress.  “But I can’t.  My little girl must stay here now—­and study—­and be good.”

Anne watched the carriage start off, feeling that it must, must, must turn and come back to get her.  But it rolled out of sight under the archway of trees.  Then Miss Morris took her by the hand and led her into a small office.  She read a long list of things that Anne must do and a still longer list of things that she must not do.  She called on Anne to read in two or three little books, and questioned her about arithmetic and history and geography.

Finally she escorted the new pupil to the dormitory.  It was a large, spotless apartment which Anne was to share with five other American girls, some older, some younger, than herself.  Each girl had her own little white bed, her own little white dressing-table and washstand, her own little white box with chintz-cushioned top, in which to keep her private belongings.  Miss Morris called Louise, one of the maids, to unpack Anne’s trunk.  As the articles were put in her box and drawers and on her shelves and hooks in the dormitory closet, Miss Morris said:  “Now remember where your shoes are, and keep them there.”

“Do not forget to put your aprons always in that corner of the third shelf.”

“The left-hand drawer of the dressing-table is for your handkerchiefs, and the right-hand drawer is for your hair-ribbons.”

Anne sat by, with Honey-Sweet clasped in her arms, and meekly answered, “Yes, Miss Morris,” or “No, Miss Morris,” as the occasion demanded.

It was luncheon-time when the unpacking was finished and in the dining-room Anne met her five room-mates.  Fat, freckle-faced, stupid Amelia Harvey and clever, idle Madge Allison were cousins in charge of Madge’s older sister who was studying art.  Annette and Bebe Girard were pretty, dark-eyed chatterboxes whose father was consul at Havre.  Fair, chubby, even-tempered Elsie Hart was the daughter of a clergyman who was travelling in the Holy Land.

Anne, who had never in her life had to do a certain thing at a certain time, did not find it easy to adjust her habits to the routine of school life.  Her morning toilette was especially troublesome.  She tumbled out of bed a little behind time at Louise’s summons and during each operation of the dressing period she fell a little farther behind.  In vain Louise reproved and hurried her.