I jumped off and ran after you. Why, did I frighten you? Your
eyes are as big as moons."
"No," she laughed, "I wasn't frightened."
"You look terribly like it."
"Perhaps some things are _like_--" she began, almost dancing along by his
side, so relieved that she could have poured out a song for joy.
"What do you do nowadays?" he asked presently. "You are more of a _live_
mouse than you used to be! I can't call you Mousie any more, only for the
sake of old times."
"I like it," said Marjorie.
"But what do you do nowadays?"
"I read all the time--when I can, and I work, different kinds of work.
Tell me about the little city girls."
"I only know my cousins and one or two others, their friends."
"What do they look like?"
"Like girls! Don't you know how girls look?"
"Not city girls."
"They are pretty, most of them, and they dress older than you and have a
_manner;_ they always know how to reply and they are not awkward and too
shy; they know how to address people, and introduce people, and sometimes
to entertain them, they seem to know what to talk about, and they are
bright and wide-awake. They play and sing and study the languages and
mathematics. The girls I know are all little ladies."
Marjorie was silent; her cheeks were burning and her eyes downcast. She
never could be like that; she never could be a "little lady," if a little
lady meant all those unattainable things.
"Do they talk differently from us--from country girls?" she asked after a
long pause.
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