had so thoroughly upset him, in truth, that Marjorie Jones received a distinct shock, now to be related.  Doctor Thrope, the kind old clergyman who had baptized Penrod, came in for a moment to congratulate the boy, and had just moved away when it was Marjorie’s turn, in the line of children, to speak to Penrod.  She gave him what she considered a forgiving look, and, because of the occasion, addressed him in a perfectly courteous manner.

“I wish you many happy returns of the day, Penrod.”

“Thank you, sir!” he returned, following Dr. Thrope with a glassy stare in which there was absolutely no recognition of Marjorie.  Then he greeted Maurice Levy, who was next to Marjorie:  “’M glad to see y’!”

Dumfounded, Marjorie turned aside, and stood near, observing Penrod with gravity.  It was the first great surprise of her life.  Customarily, she had seemed to place his character somewhere between that of the professional rioter and that of the orang-outang; nevertheless, her manner at times just hinted a consciousness that this Caliban was her property.  Wherefore, she stared at him incredulously as his head bobbed up and down, in the dancing-school bow, greeting his guests.  Then she heard an adult voice, near her, exclaim: 

“What an exquisite child!”

Mariorie galanced up—­a little consciously, though she was used to it—­naturally curious to ascertain who was speaking of her.  It was Sam Williams’ mother addressing Mrs. Bassett, both being present to help Mrs. Schofield make the festivities festive.

“Exquisite!”

Here was a second heavy surprise for Marjorie:  they were not looking at her.  They were looking with beaming approval at a girl she had never seen; a dark and modish stranger of singularly composed and yet modest aspect.  Her downcast eyes, becoming in one thus entering a crowded room, were all that produced the effect of modesty, counteracting something about her which might have seemed too assured.  She was very slender, very dainty, and her apparel was disheartening to the other girls; it was of a knowing picturesqueness wholly unfamiliar to them.  There was a delicate trace of powder upon the lobe of Fanchon’s left ear, and the outlines of her eyelids, if very closely scrutinized, would have revealed successful experimentation with a burnt match.

Marjorie’s lovely eyes dilated:  she learned the meaning of hatred at first sight.  Observing the stranger with instinctive suspicion, all at once she seemed, to herself, awkward.  Poor Marjorie underwent that experience which hearty, healthy, little girls and big girls undergo at one time or another—­from heels to head she felt herself, somehow, too thick.

Fanchon leaned close to Penrod and whispered in his ear: 

“Don’t you forget!”

Penrod blushed.

Marjorie saw the blush.  Her lovely eyes opened even wider, and in them there began to grow a light.  It was the light of indignation;—­at least, people whose eyes glow with that light always call it indignation.