first thrust upon the pavements of social concrete.

Dorothy was with Tavia in the pretty bedroom. The moonlight made its way
in at the curtained windows, and the two girls were clinging to each
other there on the cushioned seat, trying to "think it out," Dorothy
said.

"I had such a lovely time," sobbed Tavia, "and every one had been so
good to me. But I could not help it Doro dear. When that Rosabel came I
saw the difference--I saw I never could be your friend when we grew up.
And then I got to thinking about home--Dorothy, I must go. I must talk
about that money with dear mother and father and even little Johnnie--he
did seem to need me so much! And I have been so selfish--to leave them
all."

"Now, Tavia, you make me feel badly. It is I who am selfish to take you
away, but I am sure your mother particularly wanted you to come, and
your father was so pleased. I tell you, dear it is all that money. You
just feel you cannot wait to talk all about it, and I don't blame you at
all. You shall go home just as soon as you want to."

"But you must stay," said Tavia, brightening up at the thought of going
home. "I came to be company for you, but you do not need me."

Was there just a sign of jealousy in her words? Dorothy instantly
detected a change--Tavia drew herself up so like other girls, but so
unlike Tavia.

"Not need you! Why, Tavia, who in all this world could take your place,"
and her arms were wound around the neck of the weeping girl, while the