Murray Bradshaw went home and wrote a long letter to Mrs. Clymer Ketchum, of 24 Carat Place, containing many interesting remarks and inquiries, some of the latter relating to Madam Delacoste’s institution for the education of young ladies.

While this was going on at Oxbow Village, Myrtle was establishing herself at the rather fashionable school to which Mr. Gridley had recommended her.  Mrs. or Madam Delacoste’s boarding-school had a name which on the whole it deserved pretty well.  She had some very good instructors for girls who wished to get up useful knowledge in case they might marry professors or ministers.  They had a chance to learn music, dancing, drawing, and the way of behaving in company.  There was a chance, too, to pick up available acquaintances, for many rich people sent their daughters to the school, and it was something to have been bred in their company.

There was the usual division of the scholars into a first and second set, according to the social position, mainly depending upon the fortune, of the families to which they belonged.  The wholesale dealer’s daughter very naturally considered herself as belonging to a different order from the retail dealer’s daughter.  The keeper of a great hotel and the editor of a widely circulated newspaper were considered as ranking with the wholesale dealers, and their daughters belonged also to the untitled nobility which has the dollar for its armorial bearing.  The second set had most of the good scholars, and some of the prettiest girls; but nobody knew anything about their families, who lived off the great streets and avenues, or vegetated in country towns.

Myrtle Hazard’s advent made something like a sensation.  They did not know exactly what to make of her.  Hazard?  Hazard?  No great firm of that name.  No leading hotel kept by any Hazard, was there?  No newspaper of note edited by anybody called Hazard, was there?  Came from where?  Oxbow Village.  Oh, rural district.  Yes.—­Still they could not help owning that she was handsome, a concession which of course had to be made with reservations.

“Don’t you think she’s vuiry good-lookin’?” said a Boston girl to a New York girl.  “I think she’s real pooty.”

“I dew, indeed.  I didn’t think she was haaf so handsome the feeest time I saw her,” answered the New York girl.

“What a pity she had n’t been bawn in Bawston!”

“Yes, and moved very young to Ne Yock!”

“And married a sarsaparilla man, and lived in Fiff Avenoo, and moved in the fust society.”

“Better dew that than be strong-mainded, and dew your own cook’n, and live in your own kitch’n.”

“Don’t forgit to send your card when you are Mrs. Old Dr. Jacob!”

“Indeed I shaan’t.  What’s the name of the alley, and which bell?” The New York girl took out a memorandum-book as if to put it down.

“Had n’t you better let me write it for you, dear?” said the Boston girl.  “It is as well to have it legible, you know.”