he was not herself at all, but somebody in a story. The
Virginia in the looking-glass seemed so very, very civilised. More than
once, after one of these meetings with herself in the mirror, she dashed
up-stairs, locked her door, and dressed herself in her Indian suit. Then
in her noiseless moccasins she danced the wildest of war-dances,
whispering shrilly between her teeth, "Now I'm Ginger! Now I'm Ginger!
And I _won't_ be dressed up, and I _won't_ learn my lessons, and I
_won't_ be a little lady, and I'll run away and go back to Fort Dennis
the very first chance I get!"

Usually she was ashamed of these outbursts afterwards, for it always
happened that after each one she found her Aunt Allison had planned
something especially pleasant for her entertainment. Miss Allison felt
sorry for the lonely child, who had never been separated from her father
and mother before, so she devoted her time to her as much as possible,
telling her stories and entering into her plays and pleasures as if they
had both been the same age.

Since the boys had come, Virginia had not had a single homesick moment.
While she was at school in the primary department of the Girls'
College, Malcolm and Keith were reciting their lessons to the old
minister who lived across the road from Mrs. MacIntyre's. They were all
free about the same hour, and even on the coldest days played
out-of-doors from lunch-time until dark.

To-night Virginia had so many experiences to tell them of her day in
town that the boys seemed unusually long in dressing. She was so
impatient for them to hear her news that she could not settle down to
anything, but walked restlessly around the room, wishing they
would hurry.

"Oh, I haven't sorted my valentines!" she exclaimed, presently, picking
up a fancy box which she had tossed on the bed when she first came in.
"I'll take them down to the library."

There was no one in the room when she peeped in. It looked so bright and
cosy with the great wood fire blazing on the hearth and the
rose-coloured light falling from its softly shaded lamps, that she
forgot the coldness of the night outside. Sitting down on a pile of
cushions at one end of the hearth-rug, she began sorting her purchases,
trying to decide to whom each one should be sent.

"The prettiest valentine of all must go to poor papa," she said to
herself, "'cause he's been so sick away down there in Cuba; and this one
that's got the little girl on it in a blue dress sha