her,
with inquisitive glances at her hair, her clothes, and everything else
about her, seemed disposed, in spite of their calm curiosity, to show
her a kind of rough friendliness. They were more like boys, these smaller
people in the junior playroom; and Barbara, though still failing to
realise her child's ideal of girls, felt a faint kinship with their
straightforward method of addressing her.

'No nickname?' they asked, when she had again admitted her name and her
age.

'Oh, yes,' answered Barbara, unsuspiciously, 'the boys always call me the
Babe, or----'

The peals of laughter that interrupted her puzzled her a good deal. It
was very queer that, wherever she went, people always laughed at her.
It was some moments before their glee over the nickname, that so exactly
suited the childish impression she produced, began to subside.

'Have you got a nurse?' asked Angela, who had laughed louder than any one.

'No,' said Barbara, simply, not seeing that this too was meant to be a
joke. 'She left, two years ago.'

'Well, you ought to have one,' retorted Jean, brusquely. 'She might teach
you how to comb your hair.'

'And let down your frock,' added two or three voices together.

'What's the matter with my frock?' asked Babs, opening her eyes. 'It's
nearly two inches longer than any frock I ever had before.'

The laughter began afresh, and Barbara gave up trying to explain things.
She was a little hurt, in reality, and was afraid of showing it; for it
would never do, after being teased by five brothers all her life, to be
ruffled by the laughter of a few schoolgirls. All the same, there was
something in their way of laughing at her that hurt, and she did not care
to provoke them into doing it any more.

The loud ringing of a bell brought her a sudden respite, by clearing the
room of her tormentors. They poured hastily out of two large doors, that
slid back in the wall and revealed another square hall beyond, similar to
the one at the front of the house. The wide staircase up which the girls
were trooping evidently led to their bedrooms, for Barbara, left deserted
and forgotten in the playroom, could hear them, directly afterwards,
moving about overhead. As she waited there alone, wondering what she
was supposed to do next, Jean Murray came hurrying back into the room
and looked round for her.

'Oh, bother!' she said, in her ungracious manner; 'what a nuisance you
are! I wish you'd do things without waiting to be