Julia never made any objection, never hinted by so much as a reproachful eyelid, that Miss Toland’s way of doing things was not that usually adopted.  Julia would show her delight when a shopping tour and a lunch downtown were substituted for a sewing lesson; she docilely pushed back her boiling potatoes and beef stew when Miss Toland was for delaying supper while they went out to buy a waffle iron, and made some experiments with batter.  On three or four mornings each week there were no classes, and on these mornings the two loitered along over their coffee and toast, Miss Toland talking, Julia a passionately interested listener.  Perhaps the older woman would read some passage from Meredith or de Balzac, after which Julia dipped into Meredith for herself, but found him slow, and plunged back into Dickens and Thackeray.  It amused Miss Toland to watch her read, to have Julia burst out, with flaming cheeks: 

“Oh, I hope Charles Darney won’t be such a fool as to go to Paris now—­oh, does he?” or: 

“You wouldn’t catch me marrying George Osborne—­a spoiled, selfish pig, that’s what he is!”

So the months went by, and the day came when Julia, standing shyly beside Miss Toland, said smilingly: 

“Do you know what day this is, Miss Toland?”

“To-day?” Miss Toland said briskly.  “No, I don’t.  Why?”

“I’ve been here a year to-day,” Julia said, dimpling.

“You have?” Miss Toland, handling bolts of pink-and-white gingham at a long table, straightened up to survey her demure little assistant.  “Well, now I’ll tell you what we’ll do to celebrate,” she said, after a thoughtful interval.  “I understand that the Sisters over on Lake Merritt have a very remarkable sewing school.  Now, we ought to see that, Julia, don’t you think so?”

“We might get some ideas,” Julia agreed.

“Precisely.  So you put the card—­’No Classes Today’—­on the door, and we’ll go.  And put your milk bottle out, because we may be late.  I hate to do it, but I really think we should know what they’re doing over there.”

“I do, too,” Julia said.  This form preceded most of their excursions.  A few moments later they were out in the open air, with the long sunny day before them.

The months sped on their way again, and Julia had been in the settlement two years—­three years.  She was eighteen, and the world did not stand still.  She was nineteen—­twenty.  She changed by slow degrees from the frightened little rabbit that had fled to Miss Toland for refuge to an observant, dignified young woman who was quietly sure of herself and her work.  The rumpled ashen glory that had been her hair was transformed into the soft thick braids that now marked Miss Page’s head apart from those of the other girls of her day.  The round arms were guiltless of bracelets; Julia wore her severe blue uniform, untouched by any ornament; her stockings and shoes were as plain as money could buy.