were completely turned upon the tormentors, and they were only too glad to drop their airs and treat Becky with the respect that pluck and superior power invariably command.  But while thus constrained to decent behavior before Becky’s eyes, behind her back they gave way to the resentment that they felt against her for her triumph over them, and let no opportunity slip to say slighting things of her.  Good-natured Lizzie would laugh when they said these things to her,—­when they told her that Becky Hawkins was nothin’ but one o’ that low lot who lived down amongst that thieving set by the East Cove alleys,—­that jus’ as like as not she was a thief herself; that she was awful close and stingy, anyway, and saved up every scrap she could find; that they’d seen her themselves pick up old strings and buttons and such duds from the gutters!  But if Lizzie laughed out of her light lively heart, and declared she didn’t believe what they said was true, and didn’t care if it was, there were others not so good-natured as Lizzie, who, though often vastly entertained by Becky, were quite ready to believe that the spirit of mimicry she possessed had something lawless about it, especially when she broke forth into the slang of the street,—­“gutter-slang,” the other parcel-girls called it,—­the lawlessness seemed to gather a sort of proof.  And so it was that, in spite of the entertainment she afforded, and a certain kind of respect in which her “smartness” was held, Becky was considered as rather an outsider, and an object of more or less suspicion.

“A sharp one!” the saleswoman had called her, the other agreeing; and when the next day, which was also a rainy day, the little company gathered in the lunch-room again, and Lizzie brought forth a variety of pretty papers, there was a general watchfulness to see how much Becky knew, and what she would claim.  Two other of the parcel-girls were now present.  They had heard all about the basket-making plan of yesterday, and pushed forward with great interest.  Becky looked at them with mischief in her eyes, but made no movement to join Lizzie.

“Come,” said the older of the two, “why don’t you begin, Becky?  Lizzie’s waitin’, and so are we.”

“What yer waitin’ for?” asked Becky, with an impudent grin.

“To see how you make the baskets.”

“Well, yer’ll hev to wait.”

“Why, you told Lizzie you’d show her how to make baskets out o’ paper!”

“But I didn’ say I’se goin’ to show anybody else.  This ain’t a free kinnergarden.  These are private lessons.”

A shriek of laughter went up at this, while somebody cried,—­

“And private lessons must be paid for, mustn’t they, Becky?”

“Every time,” answered Becky, with unruffled coolness.

“Where’s the private room to give ’em in?” piped out one of the parcel-girls with a wink at the other.

“In here!” cried Becky, with a sudden inspiration, jumping up and running into a little fitting-room that had that morning been assigned to her to sweep and put in order after the lunch hour.