I'll make my own friends.
No, I've quite made up my mind she shan't cram Rona down my throat.

To have that awful girl eternally in my bedroom--I should die!" After all her heroics it was a terrible come-down for poor Ulyth now the actual had taken the place of the sentimental.

Her class-mates could not forbear teasing her a little.

It was too bad of them; but then they had resented her entire pre-appropriation of the new-comer, and, moreover, had one or two old scores from last term to pay off.

Ulyth began to detest the very name of "the Prairie Flower".