"No, my dear," replied the head mistress, in a rather icy voice, "I have never had the pleasure of visiting Ireland.""What about Evelyn?" inquired Dorothy.
"Oh, lor, miss, you're too good, but there's that bell again; I must run this minute."
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"No, Bridget, you are to stay here; your dinner will be brought to you." Bridget flushed crimson.
"Do, my love, and call to me if you do. I would not have that dear girl frightened for the world. I am more vexed than I can say with Hickman.""Come now, Janet," she said, "confession is good for the soul—own—now do own that you cordially hate the new girl, Bridget O'Hara."There was a plaintive note in the girl's voice, a wistful expression in her eyes, which went straight to Dorothy's kind heart.
"She was interceding for Bridget," said Dorothy.
Evelyn Percival, the head girl of the school, was now between seventeen and eighteen years of age. She was a rather pale, rather plain girl; her forehead was broad and low, which gave indications of thoughtfulness more than originality; her wide open gray eyes had a singularly sweet expression; they were surrounded by dark eyelashes, and were the best features in a face which otherwise might have appeared almost insignificant.