"I don't agree with you," answered Olive. "Strength shows itself in many forms. Miss O'Hara is pretty."Violet frowned all over her fair, small face, but Olive Moore, a sixth-form girl, was too powerful an individual to be lightly disregarded. She shrugged her shoulders therefore, and walked sulkily away.
"And isn't she nice to-day?"
A story book, belonging to the school library, happened to be lying on a chair close to her own. She took it up, opened it, and began to read. The tale was sufficiently interesting to cause her to forget her troubles.
She stepped out of the open window, and walked rapidly across the wide gravel sweep.
"Let's run down the road, then, and give her a welcome," said Bridget. "In Ireland we'd take the horses off the carriage, and draw her home ourselves. Of course, we can't do that, but we might go to meet her, waving branches of trees, and we might raise a hearty shout when we saw her coming. Come along, girls—what a lark! I'll show you how we do this sort of thing in old Ireland! Come! we'll cut down boughs as we go along. Come! be quick, be quick!""No, no—do forgive me!"
"No, Bridget, you cannot. You have been sent here to be under my care, and you must remain with me at least until the end of the term."