"No, I don't. Why?"
"I've been here a year to-day," Julia said, dimpling.
"You _have_?" Miss Toland, handling bolts of pink-and-white gingham at a
long table, straightened up to survey her demure little assistant.
"Well, now I'll tell you what we'll do to celebrate," she said, after a
thoughtful interval. "I understand that the Sisters over on Lake Merritt
have a very _remarkable_ sewing school. Now, we ought to see that, Julia,
don't you think so?"
"We might get some ideas," Julia agreed.
"Precisely. So you put the card--'No Classes Today'--on the door, and
we'll go. And put your milk bottle out, because we may be late. I hate
to do it, but I really think we should know what they're doing over
there."
"I do, too," Julia said. This form preceded most of their excursions. A
few moments later they were out in the open air, with the long sunny day
before them.
The months sped on their way again, and Julia had been in the settlement
two years--three years. She was eighteen, and the world did not stand
still. She was nineteen--twenty. She changed by slow degrees from the
frightened little rabbit that had fled to Miss Toland for refuge to an
observant, dignified young woman who was quietly sure of herself and her
work.
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