Sylvia, remembering her former visit, knew well how
delightful the drive would be, and thinking of the pleasure in store
quite forgot to be troubled by Elinor Mayhew's hostility.
At recess the girls usually walked about in the garden, or tossed a ball
back and forth. Miss Rosalie would sit on the broad piazza overlooking
the garden, her fingers busy with some piece of delicate embroidery.
To-day, as they filed out and down the steps, Elinor whispered to
several of her companions. And suddenly Sylvia realized that she was
standing alone. Grace Waite had lingered to speak to Miss Rosalie; Flora
had been excused just before recess, as her black mammy had arrived with
a note from Mrs. Hayes. The other girls were gathered in a little group
about Elinor, who was evidently telling them something of great
interest. Sylvia walked slowly along toward a little summer-house where
Miss Patten sometimes had little tea-parties. She hoped Grace would not
stay long with Miss Patten. The other girls were between Sylvia and the
arbor, and none of them moved to let her pass; nor did any of them speak
to her, as she paused with a word of greeting.
"Now, girls," she heard Elinor say; and the others, half under their
breath, but only too distinctly for Sylvia, called out: "Yankee,
Yankee!" Then like a flock of bright-colored birds they ran swiftly into
the summer-house.
For a moment Sylvia stood quite still. She realized that Elinor meant to
be hateful; but she remembered that her father had said that all
Americans were called "Yankees," and she was not a coward.
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