d her hair is light, and it curls without being put in
paper: that's how it is she's so attractive."

"She's trying to get him away! yes, yes, she is! And through keeping
this miserable school I mustn't wear my hair in curls! But I will; I
don't care if I leave the school and go home, I will wear my curls! Look,
Susan, do! is her hair as soft and long as this?" Fancy pulled from its
coil under her hat a twine of her own hair, and stretched it down her
shoulder to show its length, looking at Susan to catch her opinion from
her eyes.

"It is about the same length as that, I think," said Miss Dewy.

Fancy paused hopelessly. "I wish mine was lighter, like hers!" she
continued mournfully. "But hers isn't so soft, is it? Tell me, now."

"I don't know."

Fancy abstractedly extended her vision to survey a yellow butterfly and a
red-and-black butterfly that were flitting along in company, and then
became aware that Dick was advancing up the garden.

"Susan, here's Dick coming; I suppose that's because we've been talking
about him."

"Well, then, I shall go indoors now--you won't want me;" and Susan turned
practically and walked off.

Enter the single-minded Dick, whose only fault at the gipsying, or
picnic, had been that of loving Fancy too exclusively, and depriving
himself of the innocent pleasure the gathering might have afforded him,
by sighing regretfully at her absence,--who had danced with the rival in
sheer despair of ever being able to get through that stale, flat, and
unprofitable afternoon in any other way; but this she would not believe.

Fancy had settled her plan of emotion. To reproach Dick? O no, no. "I
am in great trouble," said she, taking what was intended to be a
hopelessly melancholy survey of a few small apples lying under the tree;
yet a critical ear might have noticed in her voice a tentative tone as to
the effect of the words upon Dick when she uttered them.

"What are you in trouble about? Tell me of it," said Dick earnestly.
"Darling, I will share it with 'ee and help 'ee."

"No, no: you can't! Nobody can!"

"Why not? You don't deserve it, whatever it is. Tell me, dear."

"O, it isn't what you think! It is dreadful: my own sin!"

"Sin, Fancy! as if you could sin! I know it can't be."

"'Tis, 'tis!" said the young lady, in a pretty little frenzy of sorrow.
"I have done wrong, and I don't like to tell it! Nobody will forgive me,
nobody! and you above all will not! . . .