A class-room door, half open, allowed a glimpse of the new arrivals.

"See the procession with the 'Fender' ahead," whispered a saucy miss.

"Her name's 'Fenler,'" corrected her chum.

"I know that, but I choose to call her 'Fender,' because she's like
those they have on engines to scoop up any one who is on the tracks.
She's just been down to the station to 'scoop' two new pupils, and I
guess--"

A tap of a ruler left the sentence unfinished.

Arabella Correyville, without an idea as to what was whispered, had seen
the broad smile, and had heard the giggle.

"Who was out there?" she wrote on a bit of paper, and cautiously passed
it to Patricia Levine.

"I don't know. I didn't see them, but they must be _swell_. They had
ever so much luggage." That was just like Patricia. She judged every one
thus.

That a girl could be every inch a lady, and at the same time, possess a
small, well chosen wardrobe was past understanding; but any girl,
however coarse in appearance and manner, could, with a display of many
gaudy costumes, convince Patricia that she was a young person of great
importance.