. "I think she has fainted, though, poor little
soul! We must carry her to her room. Do you know where it is? I have
only just come back, and don't know where the freshmen are."

"No, I don't know, but I'll take her to my room; I'm in No. 18. Oh, I
can carry her alone; she's all skin and bone; she doesn't weigh
anything."

The little figure in the staring poplin gown hung quite limp, as Peggy
lifted it. "You'd better let me help," said the tall girl, kindly. "We
can make her more comfortable; so!"

Together they carried her to Peggy's room, and laid her on the bed. It
was really more fright and distress than actual fainting, for she soon
opened her eyes, and looked eagerly at Peggy, but closed them again with
a faint cry, at sight of the stranger.

"You needn't be afraid of her!" cried Peggy, eagerly. "She isn't one of
them; she's none of that horrid crowd. I don't know who you are," she
said, "but I'm ever and ever and ever so much obliged to you. I don't
know whether you heard what they were saying."

And she poured out an indignant account of the cruelty she had witnessed
and put a stop to. The stranger's eyes were stern enough, as she
listened. "I heard only the end of it," she said, briefly, "but where I
see Blanche Haight, I am never surprised at anything cruel or cowardly.
I am very glad to know you; it was a mercy that you happened to come
along just then. I hope we shall be friends, Miss--is it Miss
Montfort?"

"Oh, that I will!" cried Peggy, responding with all her warm heart to
the sweet smile and the lovely look in the clear blue eyes. "Oh, I
should like to ever so much; but I don't know your name, do I?"

The stranger smiled again. "They call me the Snowy Owl," she said, "but
my name is Gertrude Merryweather."

CHAPTER VI.

THE OWL'S NEST.

When Peggy escorted Lobelia Parkins back to her room, she found that it
was the one directly above her own. Point for point, the rooms were
alike, fire-escape and all,--so far as the actual outlines were
concerned; there, however, the likeness ended. There had been no Uncle
John, no Margaret, in this case. The room was furnished, evidently, by
the same hand that had dressed the girl, and with equal taste. The
carpet on the floor was costly, but hideous as staring colours and
execrable design could make it. The furniture was cumbrous, and the fact
that the ugly chairs were rosewood, and their cushions brocade, made
them neither beautiful nor comfortab