_Hetty._ Yes, and such a reader! I heard her reciting Longfellow's Excelsior; and such reading, and such gestures! (_Recites._)

"The shades of night were falling fast, As through an All-pine village past--"

(_All laugh._)

_f.a.n.n.y._ O, it's ridiculous!

_Lizzie._ And then her dress! O, girls, I've made a discovery!

_f.a.n.n.y._ What is it? What is it?

_Hetty._ O, do tell us!

_Lizzie._ Well, then, you must be secret.

_f.a.n.n.y and Hetty._ Of course, of course!

_Lizzie._ Well, yesterday, at just twelve o'clock, I was in the hall; the door-bell rang; I opened it; there was a box for Miss Hannah Jones; I took it; I carried it to her room; I opened--

_f.a.n.n.y and Hetty._ The box?

_Lizzie._ The door; she wasn't there. I put it on the table; it slipped off; the cover rolled off; and such a sight!

_f.a.n.n.y._ What was it?

_Hetty._ O, do tell us!

_Lizzie._ Four--great--red--

_f.a.n.n.y and Hetty._ What? What?

_Lizzie._ Chignons!

_Hetty._ Chignons? Why, Miss Precise has forbidden our wearing them.

_f.a.n.n.y._ O, it's horrible!

_Lizzie._ Ain't it? And I did want one so bad!

_Hetty._ But she cannot wear them.

_Lizzie._ We shall see! Now comes Miss Precise's trial. She has taken Hannah Jones because her father is rich. She worships money; but if there is anything she hates, it is chignons. If she can stand this test, it will be the best thing in the world for us. Then we'll all have them.

_Hetty._ Of course we will.

_f.a.n.n.y._ But I don't like the idea of having such an interloper here.

She's no company for us.

_Enter_ MISS PRECISE, L. _She stands behind the Girls with folded arms._

_Hetty._ Indeed she isn't! I think Miss Precise is real mean to allow her to stay.

_Lizzie._ She'd better go where she belongs,--among the barbarians!

_Miss Precise._ And pray, whom are you consigning to a place among the barbarians, young ladies?

_Hetty._ Good gracious!

_f.a.n.n.y._ O, dear! O, dear!

_Lizzie._ O, who'd have thought!

(_They separate_, HETTY _and_ f.a.n.n.y, L., LIZZIE, R., MISS PRECISE, C.)

_Miss P._ Speak, young ladies; upon whom has your dread anathema been bestowed?

_Lizzie._ Well, Miss Precise, if I must tell, it's that hateful new pupil, Miss Jones. I detest her.

_f.a.n.n.y._ I can't abide her.

_Hetty._ She's horrible!

_Lizzie._ So awkward!

_f.a.n.n.y._ Talks so badly!

_Hetty._ And dresses so ridiculously!

_Lizzie._ If she stays here, I shan't!

_f.a.n.n.y._ Nor I.

_Hetty._ Nor I.

_Miss P._ Young ladies, are you pupils of the finest finishing-school in the city? Are you being nursed at the fount of learning? Are you being led in the paths of literature by my fostering hands?

_Lizzie._ Don't know. S'pose so.

_Miss P._ S'pose so! What language! S'pose so! Is this the fruit of my teaching? Young ladies, I blush for you!--you, who should be the patterns of propriety! Let me hear no more of this. Miss Jones is the daughter of one of the richest men in the city, and, as such, she should be respected by you.

_Lizzie._ She's a low, ignorant girl.

_Miss P._ Miss Bond!

_Hetty._ With arms like a windmill.

_Miss P._ Miss Gray!