“Miss Minot,” said Jennie, advancing farther into the room and thus revealing her companion, “this is Miss Minturn, who is to room with you.  Prof.  Seabrook sent me to show her here and to introduce her to you.”

Miss Minot sprang to her feet and came forward with outstretched hand, her manner characterized by true Southern hospitality.

“Come in, Miss Minturn,” she said, cordially; “come right in and sit down,” and releasing the hand she had grasped, she whisked two or three skirts off a rocker, tossing them upon the heap on one of the beds.  “I knew you were coming, and I’ve been working right smart to get ready for you.  I’ve had full swing here so long I’ve filled every nook and cranny of the place, and now”—­with a shrug and a deprecatory smile—­“I shall have to learn to be very orderly to keep from encroaching upon your territory.  But there’s lots of time.  The things can wait while we get acquainted a little.  Jennie, you’ll have to take the trunk,” she concluded, with a careless glance at the girl.

“I haven’t time to sit down, Miss Minot; I’ve my algebra lesson to learn for to-morrow morning,” and Jennie, flushing with sudden anger at being so cursorily consigned to a trunk, turned to leave the room.

Katherine put out a detaining hand.

“Thank you, Jennie, for coming up with me,” she said, with a friendly smile, adding:  “And I hope there will be no more interruptions while you are conning the algebra lesson.”

“I hate mathematics,” Jennie affirmed, with an impatient shrug, “but the things you most dislike are supposed to do you the most good, so I just have to bottle up when it’s time for algebra and try to play ‘it’s an angel being entertained unawares.’  Good-by, Miss Minturn.  I’ll see you again later.”  And bestowing a bright glance and nod upon her new friend, she shut the door and went whistling cheerily down the hall.

“That’s a queer ‘pickaninny’!  I didn’t mean to hurt her, though,” observed Miss Minot, as she curled herself up on the foot of a bed, preparatory to getting acquainted with her new roommate.

“She certainly possesses originality,” Katherine laughingly responded; “but I like her none the less for that.”

“Poor young one!” Sadie continued.  “She doesn’t have a very easy time of it here.  She is a stray waif, and hasn’t a relative in the world, to her knowledge.”

“She spoke of an aunt,” interposed Katherine.

“She calls Miss Wild ‘aunt,’ but she isn’t, really, and the child actually does not know her own name.  The way of it was this,” Miss Minot went on to explain:  “When she was a baby there was a terrible railway accident, in which it was supposed both her parents were killed, for nobody could be found to claim the child after it was over; and Miss Wild, an old maid with a small annuity, was on the same train, and, like an angel, cared for her, hoping some relative would be found when the dead were identified; but no clew to her identity was ever obtained, and the woman has done the best she could for her all these years.”