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“Hush up!” returned Johnny.

“Will you give me a writing-pad — I lost mine, and mother said I couldn’t have another for a week if I did — if I don’t holler?” inquired Lee.

“Yes. Hush up!”

Lee lay still, and Johnny continued to sit upon his prostrate form. Both were out of sight of Madame’s windows, behind a clump of the cedars which graced her lawn.

“Always fighting,” said Lily, with a fine crescendo of scorn. She lifted her chin high, and also her nose.

“Always fighting,” said Amelia, and also lifted her chin and nose. Amelia was a born mimic. She actually looked like Lily, and she spoke like her.

Then Lily did a wonderful thing. She doubled her soft little arm into an inviting loop for Amelia’s little claw of a hand.

“Come along, Amelia Wheeler,” said she. “We don’t want to stay near horrid, fighting boys. We will go by ourselves.”

And they went. Madame had a headache that morning, and the Japanese gong did not ring for fifteen minutes longer. During that time Lily and Amelia sat together on a little rustic bench under a twinkling poplar, and they talked, and a sort of miniature sun-and-satellite relation was established between them, although neither was aware of it. Lily, being on the whole a very normal little girl, and not disposed to even a full estimate of herself as compared with others of her own sex, did not dream of Amelia’s adoration, and Amelia, being rarely destitute of self-consciousness, did not understand the whole scope of her own sentiments. It was quite sufficient that she was seated close to this wonderful Lily, and agreeing with her to the verge of immolation.

“Of course,” said Lily, “girls are pretty, and boys are just as ugly as they can be.”

“Oh yes,” said Amelia, fervently.

“But,” said Lily, thoughtfully, “it is queer how Johnny Trumbull always comes out ahead in a fight, and he is not so very large, either.”

“Yes,” said Amelia, but she realized a pang of jealousy. “Girls could fight, I suppose,” said she.

“Oh yes, and get their clothes all torn and messy,” said Lily.

“I shouldn’t care,” said Amelia. Then she added, with a little toss, “I almost know I could fight.” The thought even floated through her wicked little mind that fighting might be a method of wearing out obnoxious and durable clothes.

“You!” said Lily, and the scorn in her voice wilted Amelia.

“Maybe I couldn’t,” said she.

“Of course you couldn’t, and if you could, what a sight you’d be. Of course it wouldn’t hurt your clothes as much as some, because your mother dresses you in strong things, but you’d be sure to get black and blue, and what would be the use, anyway? You couldn’t be a boy, if you did fight.”

“No. I know I couldn’t.”

“Then what is the use? We are a good deal prettier than boys, and cleaner, and have nicer manners, and we must be satisfied.”

“You are prettier,” said Amelia, with a look of worshipful admiration at Lily’s sweet little face.

“You are prettier,” said Lily. Then she added, equivocally, “Even the very homeliest girl is prettier than a boy.”

Poor Amelia, it was a good deal for her to be called prettier than a very dusty boy in a fight. She fairly dimpled with delight, and again she smiled charmingly. Lily eyed her critically.

“You aren’t so very homely, after all, Amelia,” she said. “You needn’t think you are.”

Amelia smiled again.

“When you look like you do now you are real pretty,” said Lily, not knowing or even suspecting the truth, that she was regarding in the face of this little ardent soul her own, as in a mirror.

However, it was after that episode that Amelia Wheeler was called “Copy-Cat.” The two little girls entered Madame’s select school arm in arm, when the musical gong sounded, and behind them came Lee Westminster and Johnny Trumbull, surreptitiously dusting their garments, and ever after the fact of Amelia’s adoration and imitation of Lily Jennings was evident to all. Even Madame became aware of it, and held conferences with two of the under teachers.