She solemnly divided a large red apple, and gave the halves to the
two scowling girls, who took them, laughing in spite of themselves,
and went their separate ways.

"Why didn't you let them have it out, Massachusetts?" said Maine,
laughing. "You never let any one have a good row."

"Slang!" said Massachusetts, looking up again. "One cent for the
missionary fund. You will clothe the heathen at this rate, Maine.
That is the fourth cent to-day."

"'Row' isn't slang!" protested Maine, feeling, however, for her
pocket-book.

"Vulgar colloquial!" returned Massachusetts, quietly. "And perhaps
you would go away now, Maine, or else be quiet. Have you learned--"

"No, I haven't!" said Maine. "I will do it very soon, dear Saint
Apple. I must look at the snow a little more."

Maine went dancing off to her room, where she threw the window open
and looked out with delight. The girl caught up a double handful and
tossed it about, laughing for pure pleasure. Then she leaned out to
feel the beating of the flakes on her face.

"Really quite a respectable little snowstorm!" she said, nodding
approval at the whirling white drift. "Go on, and you will be worth
while, my dear." She went singing to her algebra, which she could not
have done if it had not been snowing.