red people in the Valley. So with the kindly
impulse of her father's text still upon her, she dashed off a note to her,
telling her of some of her visits to the palaces of bygone kings and
queens.

Eugenia came in as she finished, but before she closed her desk she jotted
two names on a slip of paper. Mrs. Waters's was one. She was a little old
Englishwoman, who did fine laundry work in the Valley, and who was always
talking about the 'awthorne' edges in her old English home.

"I'll write to her from London," Lloyd thought. "If we should get a sight
of any of the royal family, how tickled she would be to hear it."

The other name was Janet McDonald. She was a sad, sweet-faced young
teacher whom Miss Allison always called her "Scotch lassie Jane." "I don't
suppose she'd care to get a letter from a little girl like me," thought
Lloyd, "but I know she'd love to have a piece of heather from the hills
near her home. I'll send her a piece when we get up in Scotland."

The letter that Eugenia sent to Joyce was only a short outline of her
plans. She knew that the other girls had sent long accounts of their trip
through Touraine, so hers was much shorter than usual.

"Papa has decided to send me to a school just outside of Paris
this year," she wrote, "instead of the one in New York, so it
will be a long time before I see my native land again. He will
have to be over here several months, and can spend Christmas and
Easter with me, so I can see him fully as often as I used to at
home.

"It is a very select school. Madame recommends it highly, and I
am simply delighted. A New York girl whom I know very well is to
be there too, and we are looking forward to all sorts of larks.
Thursday we are to start to London for a short tour of England
and Scotland. Then the others are going home and papa and I
shall go by Chester for my maid. Poor old Eliot has had a
glorious vacation at home, she writes. She is to stay at the
school with me. We shall be so busy until I get settled that I
shall not have time to write soon; but no matter how far my
letters may be apart, I am always your devoted EUGENIA."

CHAPTER X.

ON THE WING

"Who is going away?" asked Lloyd, one afternoon, of the girls who were
sitting in her room, manicuring their nails. "There goes a pile of trunks
out to the baggage wagon."

As she spoke, a carriage drove up to the door of the hotel,