"Why, how silly! I don't know her, but somehow, from her looks, I _know_
I shouldn't like her."

"No, you wouldn't, Marjorie. She's selfish, and she's ill-tempered. She
flies into a rage at any little thing, and,--well, she isn't a bit like
you Maynards."

"_No!_ and I'm glad of it! I wouldn't _want_ to be like such a stuck-up
thing!"

These last words were spoken by a strange voice, and Marjorie looked
round quickly to see a shock of red hair surmounting a very angry little
face just appearing from behind the small hill, beneath whose
overhanging shadow they had built their palace.

"Why, Hester Corey!" shouted Tom. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see how you like your old sand-house!" she jeered, mockingly,
and making faces at Marjorie between her words. Marjorie was utterly
astonished. It was her first experience with a child of this type, and
she didn't know just how to take her.

The newcomer was a little termagant. Her big blue eyes seemed to flash
with anger, and as she danced about, shaking her fist at Marjorie and
pointing her forefinger at her, she cried, tauntingly, "Stuck up!
Proudy!"

Marjorie grew indignant. She had done nothing knowingly to provoke this
wrath, so she faced the visitor squarely, and glared back at her.