sked her in a spiteful way if it
was a public school teacher that told her that, and said she didn't
know that they taught French out West. Joyce said yes, that they did,
but that of course a year abroad was quite a help, and that before she
left France they told her that her accent was quite Parisian.

That took the wind out of Eugenia's sails. She did not know that Joyce
had been abroad. She is crazy to go herself, but that is the one thing
that her father will not humour her in. He says that she must wait until
she is older, and he has time to go with her himself. All her friends
have been, and it seemed to mortify her that Joyce was ahead of her
there. She hasn't put on any airs with Joyce since, although she still
does with me.

This is a great deal of nonsense to write in my "Good times" book, but I
have put it in to explain why we have paired off as we have. Joyce and I
go together now, and Eugenia and Lloyd. Eugenia flatters her all the
time, and never says hateful things to her as she does to us, and Lloyd
thinks that Eugenia is perfection.

Some letters came this afternoon,--a whole handful for Eugenia, written
on handsome linen paper and sealed with pretty monogram seals. I had a
letter, too. The first one since I have been here. It was from Davy, and
printed in big tipsy letters that straggled all over the page. There
were only a few lines, but I knew how long the little fellow must have
worked over them, gripping the pencil tight in his hard little fist. I
was so proud of it, Davy's first letter, that I passed it around for the
girls to see. Lloyd and Joyce were interested and amused, and laughed as
I had done over the dear crooked letters; but Eugenia was in one of her
high and mighty moods, and she only lifted those black eyebrows in that
indifferent way of hers, and tossed it back.

"What awfully queer letter-paper," she said. "_Ruled!_ I didn't know
that anybody ever wrote on ruled paper nowadays, but servants. Eliot
always does, but it's so common to use it, you know."

I could hardly keep the tears back to have her make fun of poor little
Davy's letter. For a few minutes I was so homesick that I wished I was
back with Davy in the plain old farmhouse, where it doesn't make any
difference whether there are lines on your paper or not, or any such
silly things as that. Everybody uses ruled paper there, for that matter,
because Squire Jaynes doesn't sell any other kind. What difference does
it make, a