hard that she shook.  "I don't know," she answered loudly. 

 Then what Mrs. De Pui said was very terrible. Cecilia crawled off at last, white and shaking. She groped for her door knob. Things before her were not very clear. What Mrs. De Pui had said was very terrible, but,—but the other, her first lie, uttered with that brazen assurance.... She went in and threw herself across the bed.... She didn't cry. The hurt was too big. So her dear father and the fact that she was born in poverty made her an outcast? If so, she would stay so. "Learn her to be a lady," the breeze that came in through an inch opened window whispered. Cecilia felt it, and set her chin. 

 And Mrs. De Pui hadn't believed her story. Hadn't believed her....  "One more try, Cecilia, although you are a great trial both to me and my pupils," echoed through her brain in Mrs. De Pui's cold tones. Cecilia sat upright on the bed.  "My heart's right," she said aloud.  "I believe it's better than Annette's. Don't that count for nothing? Ain't being kind being a lady?"  She stared sullenly across the room. The white furniture glittered coldly. From between the flutter of scrim curtains she saw a painfully well arranged park. Even the trees were smugly superior. 

 "Gawd was in that flat," she said, and again aloud. A sentence came to her mind. A sentence that is shopworn and has been on the top shelf for many years.  "I guess Gawd is what I feel fer paw,—" she said, half musingly,—"Love. An' fer Johnny, even when he's bad, an' Father McGowan, dear, an' Norah. Just that." ... She looked out of the window and saw the painfully well regulated trees again.  "Them trees ain't so bad," she stated; "at least they ain't when I remember that they love me at home."  Her face changed, for she remembered some of Mrs. De Pui's well-aimed truths. Her father,—his difference. It should always be hers, too, she decided. 

 Her first touch of hate came.  "Gawd, make me a lady quick!" she implored. Some one tapped on the door. Cecilia opened it. Annie was there, beaming. She held a long box with stems sticking out of one end of it.  "Fer you, dearie," said Annie. Cecilia opened the box with trembling hands. The box held pink roses, very, very pink roses.... On the top lay a card. On it was written in a loose, boy-hand: "For little 'A-good-deal-of-whipped-cream-on-top.'"  Cecilia stared at the card, breathless. 

 "Annie," she-said at last, "ain't they lovely?" 

 "Aren't, dearie," corrected Annie, and then added, 

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