more frolicsome were imitating the Grecian Bend, some were
putting their heads together over little notes, nearly all were eating
confectionery, and the entire twelve chattered like magpies. Being
politely supplied with caramels, Polly sat looking and listening,
feeling very young and countrified among these elegant young
ladies.
“Girls, do you know that Carrie has gone abroad? There has been
so much talk, her father could n’t bear it, and took the whole
family off. Is n’t that gay?” said one lively damsel, who had just
come in.
“I should think they ‘d better go. My mamma says, if I ‘d been
going to that school, she ‘d have taken me straight away,” answered
another girl, with an important air.
“Carrie ran away with an Italian music-teacher, and it got into the
papers, and made a great stir,” explained the first speaker to Polly,
who looked mystified.
“How dreadful!” cried Polly.
“I think it was fun. She was only sixteen, and he was perfectly
splendid; and she has plenty of money, and every one talked about
it; and when she went anywhere, people looked, you know, and
she liked it; but her papa is an old poke, so he ‘s sent them all
away. It ‘s too bad, for she was the jolliest thing I ever knew.”
Polly had nothing to say to lively Miss Belle; but Fanny observed,
“I like to read about such things; but it ‘s so inconvenient to have it
happen right here, because it makes it harder for us. I wish you
could have heard my papa go on. He threatened to send a maid to
school with me every day, as they do in New York, to be sure I
come all right. Did you ever?” “That ‘s because it came out that
Carrie used to forge excuses in her mamma’s name, and go
promenading with her Oreste, when they thought her safe at
school. Oh, was n’t she a sly minx?” cried Belle, as if she rather
admired the trick.
“I think a little fun is all right; and there ‘s no need of making a
talk, if, now and then, some one does run off like Carrie. Boys do
as they like; and I don’t see why girls need to be kept so dreadfully
close. I ‘d like to see anybody watching and guarding me!” added
another dashing young lady.
“It would take a policeman to do that, Trix, or a little man in a tall
hat,” said Fanny, slyly, which caused a general laugh, and made
Beatrice toss her head coquettishly.
“Oh, have you read ‘The Phantom Bride’? It ‘s perfectly thrilling!
There ‘s a regular rush for it at the library; but some prefer
‘Breaking a Butterfly.’ Which do you like best?” asked a pale girl of
Polly, in one of the momentary lulls which occurred.
“I have n’t read either.”
“You must, then. I adore Guy Livingston’s books, and Yates’s.
‘Ouida’s’ are my delight, only they are so long, I get worn out
before I ‘m through.”
“I have n’t read anything but one of the Muhlbach novels since I
came. I like those, because there is history in them,” said Polly,
glad to have a word to say for herself.
“Those are well enough for improving reading; but I like real
exciting novels; don’t you?”
Polly was spared the mortification of owning that she had never
read any, by the appearance of Mousieur, a gray-headed old
Frenchman, who went through his task with the resigned air of one
who was used to being the victim of giggling school-girls. The
young ladies gabbled over the lesson, wrote an exercise, and read a
little French history. But it did not seem to make much impression
upon them, though Monsieur was very ready to explain; and Polly
quite blushed for her friend, when, on being asked what famous
Frenchman fought in our Revolution, she answered Lamartine,
instead of Lafayette.
The hour was soon over; and when Fan had taken a music lesson in
another room, while Polly looked on, it was time for recess. The
younger girls walked up and down the court, arm in arm, eating
bread an butter; others stayed in the school-room to read and