look like another little girl who was beautiful and
wore beautiful clothes, to be obliged to set forth for
Madame's on a lovely spring morning, when thin
attire was in evidence, dressed in dark-blue-and-
white-checked gingham, which she had worn for
three summers, and with sleeves which, even to
childish eyes, were anachronisms, was a trial. Then
to see Lily flutter in a frock like a perfectly new white
flower was torture; not because of jealousy -- Amelia
was not jealous; but she so admired the other little
girl, and so loved her, and so wanted to be like her.

As for Lily, she hardly ever noticed Amelia. She
was not aware that she herself was an object of
adoration; for she was a little girl who searched for
admiration in the eyes of little boys rather than
little girls, although very innocently. She always
glanced slyly at Johnny Trumbull when she wore a
pretty new frock, to see if he noticed. He never did,
and she was sharp enough to know it. She was also
child enough not to care a bit, but to take a queer
pleasure in the sensation of scorn which she felt in
consequence. She would eye Johnny from head to
foot, his boy's clothing somewhat spotted, his bulging
pockets, his always dusty shoes, and when he twisted
uneasily, not understanding why, she had a thrill
of purely feminine delight. It was on one such occa-
sion that she first noticed Amelia Wheeler particularly.

It was a lovely warm morning in May, and Lily