This first school-day was Alma Driscoll’s introduction into the world outside of her mother’s love.  She had never felt so lonely as when surrounded by all these girls, each of whom had her intimate friend, and among whom she was not wanted.  She could not help feeling that she was different from the others, and day by day the wondering eyes grew shy and lonely; and she avoided the children out of school hours, bravely hiding from her mother that the gingham apron, which always hid her faded dress, seemed to her a badge of disgrace that separated her from her daintily dressed schoolmates.

Such was the state of affairs when St. Valentine’s day dawned.  Alma’s two weeks of school had seemed a little eternity to her; but this day she could feel that there was something unusual in the air, and she could not help being affected by the pleasurable excitement afloat in the room.  She knew what the big white box by the door was for, and when, after school, Miss Joslyn was appointed to uncover and distribute the valentines, Alma found herself following the crowd, until, pressed close to Lucy Berry’s side, she stood in the centre of the merry group about the teacher.

While the dainty envelopes were being passed around her, a shade of wistfulness crept over the child’s face, and her eager fingers crumpled the checked apron as though Alma feared they might otherwise touch the beautiful valentines that shone so enticingly with red and blue, gold and silver.  Suddenly Miss Joslyn spoke her name,—­Alma Driscoll; only she said “Miss Alma Driscoll,” and, yes, there was no mistake about it, she had read it off one of those vine-wreathed envelopes.

“Did you ever see such a goose!” exclaimed Ada Singer, as she watched the mixture of shyness and eagerness with which Alma took her valentine and opened the envelope.

Poor little Alma!  How her heart beat as she unfolded her prize—­and how it sank when she beheld the coarse, flaring picture of a sewing girl, with a disgusting rhyme printed beneath it.  She dropped the valentine, a great sob of disappointment choked her, and bursting into tears, she pushed her way through the crowd and rushed from the schoolroom.

“What is the meaning of that?” asked Miss Joslyn.

For answer some one handed her the picture.  The young lady glanced at it, then tore it in pieces as she looked sadly around on her scholars.

“Whoever sent this knows that Alma’s mother works in the factory,” she said.  “It makes me ashamed of my whole school to think there is one child in it cruel enough to do this thing;” then, amid the silent consternation of the scholars, Miss Joslyn rose, and leaving the half-emptied box, went home without another word.

“What a fuss about nothing,” said Ada Singer.  “The idea of crying because you get a ‘comic!’ What else could Alma Driscoll expect?”

Lucy Berry’s cheeks had been growing redder all through this scene, and now she turned upon Ada.