her very steps corresponding to that painful directness of line
and plan, common to towns made by mill-owners for their employees.
Even the stars, now pricking their way through the blue, seemed to
throw down straight lines of light on Flosston; nothing varied the
mechanical exactness, and monotonous squares and angles of
streets, buildings, and high board fences.

One more sharp turn brought the girl within sight of a square,
squatty railroad station, and as she sped toward it she caught
sight of the figure of another girl, outlined in the shadows. This
figure was taller and larger in form than herself, and as Dagmar
whistled softly, the girl ahead stopped.

"Oh, you got my note," said the other. "I am so glad. I was afraid
you would not come."

"I'm here," replied Dagmar, "bag and baggage, mostly bag," kicking
the accommodating and inoffensive telescope. "I hate to carry this
thing."

"Oh, that's all right," replied the taller girl, who, under a
street lamp, showed a face older than Dagmar's and perhaps a
little hard and rough. Just that bold defiant look, so often
affected by girls accustomed to fighting their way through the
everyday hardships of walled-in surroundings.

"Tessie, I am afraid," confessed the younger girl. "I almost cried
when Mama asked me to fix supper."

"Oh, baby! You are too pretty, that's all's the matter with you.