Part 3

“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.

“It is not at all healthy for one child to model herself so entirely upon the pattern of another,” said Miss Parmalee.

“Most certainly it is not,” agreed Miss Acton, the music-teacher.

“Why, that poor little Amelia Wheeler had the rudiments of a fairly good contralto. I had begun to wonder if the poor child might not be able at least to sing a little, and so make up for--other things; and now she tries to sing high like Lily Jennings, and I simply cannot prevent it. She has heard Lily play, too, and has lost her own touch, and now it is neither one thing nor the other.”

“I might speak to her mother,” said Madame, thoughtfully. Madame was American born, but she married a French gentleman, long since deceased, and his name sounded well on her circulars. She and her two under teachers were drinking tea in her library.

Miss Parmalee, who was a true lover of her pupils, gasped at Madame's proposition. “Whatever you do, please do not tell that poor child's mother,” said she.

“I do not think it would be quite wise, if I may venture to express an opinion,” said Miss Acton, who was a timid soul, and always inclined to shy at her own ideas.

“But why?” asked Madame.

“Her mother,” said Miss Parmalee, “is a quite remarkable woman, with great strength of character, but she would utterly fail to grasp the situation.”

“I must confess,” said Madame, sipping her tea, “that I fail to understand it. Why any child not an absolute idiot should so lose her own identity in another's absolutely bewilders me. I never heard of such a case.”

Miss Parmalee, who had a sense of humor, laughed a little. “It is bewildering,” she admitted. “And now the other children see how it is, and call her 'Copy-Cat' to her face, but she does not mind. I doubt if she understands, and neither does Lily, for that matter. Lily Jennings is full of mischief, but she moves in straight lines; she is not conceited or self-conscious, and she really likes Amelia, without knowing why.”

“I fear Lily will lead Amelia into mischief,” said Madame, “and Amelia has always been such a good child.”

“Lily will never MEAN to lead Amelia into mischief,” said loyal Miss Parmalee.

“But she will,” said Madame.

“If Lily goes, I cannot answer for Amelia's not following,” admitted Miss Parmalee.

“I regret it all very much indeed,” sighed Madame, “but it does seem to me still that Amelia's mother--”

“Amelia's mother would not even believe it, in the first place,” said Miss Parmalee.

“Well, there is something in that,” admitted Madame. “I myself could not even imagine such a situation. I would not know of it now, if you and Miss Acton had not told me.”