both laugh, the delicious silly laugh of childhood.

Already they seemed like friends. "How do you pronounce your name?"
Sylvia asked familiarly.

"Cam-eela Fingál," said the other, looking up from her cup, her upper
lip red and moist. She accented the surname on the last syllable.

"What a perfectly lovely name!" cried Sylvia. "Mine is Sylvia
Marshall."

"That's a pretty name too," said Camilla, smiling. She spoke less
timidly now, but her fawn-like eyes still kept their curious
expression, half apprehension, half hope.

"How old are you?" asked Sylvia.

"Eleven, last November."

"Why, my birthday is in November, and I was eleven too!" cried Sylvia.
"I thought you must be older--you're so tall."

Camilla looked down and said nothing.

Sylvia went on: "I'm crazy about the way you do your hair, in those
twists over your ears. When I was studying my spelling lesson, I was
trying to figure out how you do it."

"Oh, I don't do it. Mattice does it for us--for Cécile and
me--Cécile's my sister. She's in the third grade."