Laura. And I think you're very wicked. You're not a bit like
what you used to be. And it's all going to school that's done
it--Mother says it is."

"Oh, don't be such a blooming ass!" and Laura, stung to the quick,
retaliated by taunting Pin with the change that had come to pass in her
appearance. To her surprise, she found Pin grown inordinately touchy
about her looks: at Laura's brutal statement of the truth she cried
bitterly.

"I'm not, no, I'm not! I haven't got a full moon for a face! It's no
fatter than yours. Sarah said last time you were home how fat you were
getting."

"I'm sure I'm not," said Laura, indignant in her turn.

"Yes, you are," sobbed Pin. "But you only think other people are ugly,
not yourself I'll tell mother what you've said as soon as ever I get
home. And I'll tell her, too, you want to make me tell stories. And
that I'm sure you've done something naughty at school, 'cause you won't
ever talk about it. And how you're always saying bad words like
blooming and gosh and golly--yes, I will!"

"You were always a sneak and a tell-tale."

"And you were always a greedy, selfish, deceitful thing."

"You don't know anything about me, you numbskull, you!"

"I don't want to! I know you're a bad, wicked girl."

After this exchange of home truths, they did not speak to each other
for two days: Pin had a temper that smouldered, and could not easily
forgive. So she stayed at old Anne's side, helping to bake scones and
leatherjackets; or trotted after the boys, who had dropped into the way
of saying: "Come on, little Pin!" as they never said: "Come on, Laura!"
and Laura retired in lonely dudgeon to the beach.

She took the estrangement so much to heart that she eased her feelings
by abusing Pin in thought; Pin was a pig-headed little ignoramus, as
timid as ever of setting one foot before the other. And the rest of
them would be just the same--old stick-in-the muds, unchanged by a
hair, or, if they HAD changed, then changed for the worse. Laura had
somehow never foreseen the day on which she would find herself out of
tune with her home circle; with unthinking assurance she had expected
that Pin, for instance, would always be eager to keep pace with her.
Now, she saw that her little sister would probably never catch up to
her again. Such progress as Pin might make--if she were not already
glued firm to her silly notions--would be in quite another direction.
For the quarrel had made one thing plain to