"I don't want to look as though I was trying to out-dress
anyone."

"If you find they have less than you, keep some of your good things in
your trunk. You do not need to wear them all," was Miss Hale's advice. "No
doubt they are fixing themselves up, too," she added.

Elizabeth had never thought of the matter before. Now the mere thinking
about it seemed to bring her into relation and sympathy with those
hundreds of unknown girls who were, like her, counting each penny in order
to spend it to the best advantage, all the while looking forward to the
first of September.

It came at last. The big trunk was brought down from the attic. The new
dresses were folded and packed. The books which she might need at Exeter
were put into a box. The trunk was locked and carried into the lower hall,
waiting for the drayman to call for it early the following morning.

At this juncture going away from home changed color. It was no longer
something to look forward to with pleasure, but something to dread.
Elizabeth was not the only one who felt the coming separation. She noticed
through a film of tears that the best linen and china were used, and that
her favorite dishes had been prepared for the last home supper.

Despite their feelings, each made an effort to be cheerful. Mr. Hobart
told incidents of his own school-days, and rallied Elizabeth on being
homesick before she had started.

Afterward, they sat together on the porch. The father and mother talked
but Elizabeth sat silent. She was thinking that the next evening would
find her far away and among strangers. She dreaded meeting girls who had
been reared with others of their age, and who had been in school before,
feeling that she would appear very awkward and dull until she learned the
ways of school. She half wished that her father would tell her she need
not go. She came closer and seating herself on the step below him, rested
her head on his knee. "Father, I do not wish to go to Exeter. May I stay
home with you and mother? Be a good daddy and say 'yes.'"

"I shall be good and say 'no.' Our little girl must go away to-morrow. I
can't tell you how lonely we shall be, but we have had you so long that we
were almost forgetting that you had a life of your own. We must not be
selfish, so we send you off, bag and baggage." Her mother added: "Unless
she oversleeps, which I am sure she will unless she goes to bed right
away. It is later than I supposed. Come, Elizabeth."

As sh