It is safe to say that Miss Harriet Green never before ascended the hill leading to St. Helen’s in such a short space of time. When she arrived, quite out of breath, at The Hermitage, Priscilla was just preparing to mount the black steed, before the eyes of an interested audience. She waved her hand as a signal for operations to cease until she might find breath to speak. Then, after clearing her throat vigorously:

“Priscilla,” she said, “dismount immediately. Virginia, tie that dangerous animal to the hitching-post. Mary, telephone Mr. Hanly to come at once and take him away. Virginia, you will now walk with me to Miss King’s office!”

The girls listened mystified. What had Virginia done? Virginia, more dazed than they, obediently followed Miss Green, who, in stony silence, crossed the campus, and into Miss King’s gold and brown room. Miss King sat by the western window, a book in her hand. She smiled as they entered, a smile that died away at the sight of Miss Green’s face.

“What is it?” she asked.

Miss Green spoke, acidly and at length. Virginia, standing by the window, listened, still dazed, to this tale of her willful disobedience, her fool-hardiness, her cruelty to animals, her refusal to stop at a command from her teacher. When Miss Green had finished, she turned to Virginia, as though expecting a denial, or an explanation, but Virginia did not speak. Miss King did, however—very quietly.

“You did quite right, Miss Green, in coming to me, since you did not understand matters—quite right. You see, as regards horseback riding, I left the choice of a horse entirely to Virginia, because we know so little of horses, and I know she is thoroughly familiar with them. I am sure she will always be careful of my desires, which I have fully described to her. Virginia, if you will remain a few minutes, I will talk this matter over with you.”

Miss Green left the room, with feelings quite indescribable. Virginia, still in khaki, with disorderly hair and a heightened color in her cheeks, remained with Miss King. For half an hour they talked together of books and lessons, of Thanksgiving and Vermont, of Wyoming and the mountains. Strangely enough, except for the briefest explanation of Virginia’s inability to obey Miss Green, they did not speak of horseback riding; but when Virginia left she was far happier than when she had entered.

As for Miss King, she sat alone in the brown and gold room and watched the sun go down behind the hills. She seemed thoughtful—troubled, perhaps. By and by she rose from her seat by the window, went to the desk, and wrote a letter. Then she returned and sat in the twilight.

“Harriet has been with me a long time,” she said to herself at last. “But neither because of her superior Latin instruction, nor for the sake of our old friendship, can I any longer allow my girls in The Hermitage to lack a home atmosphere. Perhaps, after all, Athens needs Harriet. I may be doing the Ancient World a favor, who knows?” And the little, gray-haired lady smiled to herself in the twilight.

CHAPTER IX—THE THANKSGIVING ORATION OF LUCILE DU BOSE

“Dorothy, do you think it’s fair?”

The black eyes of Lucile Du Bose, ready at any moment to brim over with discouraged tears, implored her room-mate, who lay upon the couch, deep in a magazine.

“Dorothy, do you?”

Dorothy frowned. Apparently she had no thoughts on the subject, and did not wish to be disturbed.

“Do I what, Lucile? What’s the matter, anyway?”

Her tone was petulant and not conducive to conversation; but poor Lucile was desperate.

“Do you think it’s fair for me to have to write an oration on the Pilgrim Fathers? I don’t know anything about them, Dorothy. Besides, I’m most all French; and I don’t know how to start an oration, anyway!”

“Why, of course, it’s fair enough. The others all have to. Why not you? No one’s to blame because you’re French.”

“But the rest don’t all have to,” persisted the injured Lucile, while Dorothy began again to read. “The Blackmore twins were allowed to take Ethan Allen, because he’s their ancestor; and Miss Wallace told Virginia she could write on the Pioneers. Who are the Pioneers, Dorothy?”

“Search me!” Dorothy was in a forbidding temper. Of late even her devotion to Miss Wallace had not made her “angelic” to her room-mate.

Lucile chewed her pen-stock savagely. Something must be done. Study hour was nearly over, and Dorothy would be on her way to tennis or the “Forget-me-not.” She would try once more.

“Dorothy?”

“Well!”

“Dorothy, if you’ll tell me how an oration begins, I’ll do your French sentences every day for two weeks.”

Dorothy stopped reading. This was worth considering, since her rank in French had been B for some time. Of late Dorothy’s resolutions made in the fall had been considerably bent if not broken. Still it would not do to accept with too much alacrity. She closed the magazine.

“I can’t see, Lucile, how you can have been studying orations all the fall with Miss Wallace, and not know what one is like. Don’t you listen in class?”

“Of course I do; but they’re so dry I forgot them. I know Napoleon’s ‘Address to his Troops,’ but I can’t understand Washington and Webster. If I could just begin this I might go on. It’s got to sound patriotic, you know, and thrilling, like ‘Soldiers! you have precipitated yourselves like a torrent from the Apennines!’”

“But you’re not talking to any one. You’re talking about the Pilgrim Fathers. Now, why don’t you begin like Lincoln? Of course, you can’t say, ‘Fourscore and seven years ago,’ but you can subtract 1620 from now, and say—let me see-‘Fourteen score and thirteen years ago.’ Now, I think that’s original, Lucile.”

Lucile looked more hopeful, and blew her nose for the last time. Then she began to write. After a few moments,

“I’ve done three sentences, Dorothy. They’re landed safely. Now what shall I say?”

Dorothy was plainly impatient. Still there were those French sentences!

“Well, I should think you’d tell how they overcame all the elements. Something like this, ‘Nothing daunted them, breaking waves dashing high, or a stern and rockbound coast.’ That’s from a poem, you know, called ‘The Landing of the Pilgrims.’ Then you might say something about their fortitude being an inspiration to us. Orations are all about that, you know,—bravery and inspiration and reverence and all kinds of memories. But for goodness’ sake, Lucile, don’t put my words down! I just suggest. You must write your own words.”

“Why, of course I will. I’m just putting it down roughly now, you see. I’ll do it all over this evening. Oh, dear, here’s Virginia and Priscilla and we’re not half done. Do you suppose you’ll have any thoughts this evening?”

“I can’t tell. Come in!”

“Walk down to the ‘Forget-me-not’ with us, you two,” said Priscilla. “My allowance has come, and I’m treating. This is the first hot chocolate and cake day. Jess Blackmore was down yesterday, and they told her. What’s the matter, Lucile? You look sad.”

“I’ll have to change my shoes,” said Dorothy. “Will you wait?”

“Yes, if you hurry. What’s up, Lucile?”

Lucile, glad of an audience, returned to her old grievance.

“I don’t think it’s fair,” she complained. “Virginia, if you had the Pioneers, why need I have the Pilgrim Fathers?”

“Why, I’d have soon had the Pilgrim Fathers,” Virginia explained, “but I think real Americans ought to be just as proud of the Pioneers, because they were every bit as brave. They crossed the mountains to find new lands, and made homes in the wilderness, and fought Indians and wild animals. And no one here in New England seems to care about them. So I asked if I mightn’t take them myself to give them a tribute.”

“Oh, that’s what a Pioneer is,” said Lucile reflectively. “Well, why couldn’t I take the Storming of the Bastille? My great grandfather helped. The Blackmores have Ethan Allen.”

Dorothy sighed very audibly as she laced her boots. She was apparently dead sick of the Pilgrim Fathers.

“But, you see, Lucile,” Virginia again explained, “Miss Wallace wants you to be more American now you’re here at school, because your mother is American, and that’s why she wants you to take the Pilgrim Fathers, so you’ll appreciate your country more.”

Lucile’s black eyes snapped. She pushed her paper away, and went to the closet, murmuring something in French under her breath that sounded very much like “Vive la France!”

Virginia’s eyes fell on the crumpled and dog-eared piece of paper.

“Why, haven’t you more than that done, Lucile? They have to be given to Miss Wallace to-morrow!”

The angry Lucile stamped her foot. This was quite too much to be borne. She was sick and tired of the Pilgrim Fathers, and all their patronizing descendants.

“No, I haven’t,” she cried. “And you needn’t act as though you knew so much, Virginia Hunter, just because you can write compositions. You’re out of it easy just because you’ve lived way out in the woods, and know all about Indians and wild animals. But I’ve lived in Paris, and there’s a great difference between Wyoming and Paris, I’ll have you to know!”

The scorn in Lucile’s voice was not to be mistaken; but Virginia was equal to the occasion.

“Yes, of course there is a great difference,” she said. “You see, Paris is frightfully small compared to Wyoming—I don’t mean in size, you know, but in the way people look at things. In Paris, for instance, one thinks about clothes and a good time and gayety; and in the mountains you’d feel mean thinking about such frivolous things.”

Dorothy and Priscilla laughed, but Lucile grew angrier as Virginia continued sweetly,

“But I really wrote one on the Pilgrim Fathers, too, Lucile. Priscilla and I both did, and then tried to thrill each other by giving them. Would you like to hear mine? I have it right here in my blouse pocket.”

Lucile’s mind, slow to originate, was quick to grasp, and tenacious to retain. An idea came to her with Virginia’s question, but she was too irritated to appear as eager as she really was to hear the oration. Here might be a way out of her difficulty. She brushed her sweater leisurely.

“I’m sure I don’t care. You may if you like,” she said at length.

“Oh, let’s give those Pilgrim Fathers a rest!” cried the exasperated Dorothy. “I’m tired to death of them, and there won’t be a cake left. Come on!”

Priscilla gave her a warning nudge and a sly wink. “No, let’s hear Virginia first,” she said. “It won’t take five minutes, and her oration’s a peach! Go on, Virginia!”

Virginia mounted the nearest chair, and drawing a crumpled paper from her blouse pocket, began to read in a voice filled with emotion:

“How the very breaking waves of rockbound Cape Cod were thrilled when our Pilgrim forefathers first landed on the stern shores of our vast continent, then unrevealed. Methinks the ocean eagle himself burst into a paean of praise! How the giant branches of the woods against a stormy sky waved banners of praise! No trumpet that sings of fame announced their coming! No roll of stirring drums saluted them! But their gospel hymns of cheer burst upon the naked solitude!

 “They did not seek thus afar the jewels from the bowels of the earth, nor did they seek king’s wealth or war’s spoils, but rather the pure shrine of a truly childlike faith.

 “Aye, classmates, let us in sooth call this soil of our dear State holy ground, for they trod here, and they left us an unstained freedom to worship the God of our Fathers, known of old!”

With a quiver in her voice Virginia finished, bowed to her audience and descended. Lucile was not blessed with a keen sense of humor. Still, as eloquent as it sounded, it might be a joke. She glanced at Virginia’s and Priscilla’s serious faces, and was reassured.

“Oh, I wish I could do something like that!” she breathed.

“Isn’t it fine?” Priscilla asked excitedly. “I told Virginia it had a real Patrick Henry ring. Don’t you think so, Dorothy?”

“Elegant!” said Dorothy, emerging crimson from the depths of the closet. “Come on. Let’s hurry!”

Virginia threw the piece of mangled paper in the waste basket. “I’ve another copy,” she said carelessly, as they hurried down-stairs and out-of-doors. At the steps Lucile hesitated.

“I’ll catch up,” she said. “I’ve forgotten something. Go on.”

She ran up-stairs while the three outside the fir trees laughed.

“Didn’t she bite easily, though? I never thought she would bite like that. Poor Mrs. Hemans and Kipling!”

“It way mean,” admitted Virginia, “but I just couldn’t resist after that slam she gave Wyoming. I thought sure she’d see through it—Dorothy was so red; and, of course, I thought she knew ‘The breaking waves dashed high.’”

“The best part of it all is,” Dorothy whispered, “she’s gone up to find that paper. Martha cleans this afternoon, you know, and Lucile wants to use that oration. I’ll bet I’m not asked for any thoughts to-night!”

“Oh, no, she won’t!” cried Virginia. “Dorothy, do you suppose she will?”

“You wait and see! Of course she will. Lucile’s queer. She doesn’t have any thoughts; and she can’t see when a thing is funny. Miss Wallace doesn’t have them read aloud, does she, Priscilla? Lucile especially asked that, and I told her she didn’t.”

“She didn’t last year. Oh, if she did!”

They laughed again, but tried to calm down as Lucile, looking somewhat embarrassed, emerged from the fir trees. Then they proceeded to the “Forget-me-not,” where they found most of St. Helen’s assembled, and toasted the different classes and cottages in hot chocolate, served by a sallow youth with eye-glasses and a white duck coat, he evidently being likewise an innovation, like the chocolate and cakes.

On the way home Virginia’s conscience pricked a little, and she confessed a slight mean feeling to Priscilla.

“You see, if I could be sure Miss Wallace wouldn’t ask us to read them in class, it wouldn’t be so bad. It’s bad enough, if Lucile really uses that foolish thing, to have Miss Wallace read it alone; but, really, ’twould be frightful if Miss Wallace should call on her to read it. I don’t know what I’d do! And every one would laugh! Oh, it is mean, Priscilla!”

“No, it isn’t mean, it’s just funny. You know things are different in school, Virginia, though I can never make mother see it. Now jokes aren’t mean! Lucile just bit, and she’ll learn in this way not to bite so easily. Also, that you get in trouble using other folks’ work. Besides, if she’s a sport, and takes it right, we’ll all like her better. It is mean to set traps deliberately to get other girls into trouble, the way Imogene did to you the other night; and it’s miserably mean to try to throw blame on some one else for what you’ve done yourself. Mother can’t seem to see much difference, but dad and the boys can. Only jokes aren’t mean; and we’d have been too slow for any use if we hadn’t had some fun out of that oration when the chance came like that.”

In study hour that evening, Lucile’s conscience was also active, with better reason. Dorothy, in her slippers, had stolen along the porch to Imogene’s room, a way she had of doing lately, though it was quite against the rules. But Lucile did not need Dorothy’s thoughts, for she was copying furiously from a piece of yellow paper, which she had taken from her handkerchief box. After all, she told her conscience, it was perfectly excusable, for the whole thing had been unfair. To expect her, whose great-grandfather had stormed the Bastille, to write an oration on the Pilgrim Fathers! Moreover, Virginia wasn’t going to use it herself, she reasoned, so it really wasn’t cheating; and she could help Virginia on her French some day to balance the account. Besides, Virginia would never know, because Miss Wallace never had them read in class; and, after all, it was not all Virginia’s work, because Lucile must add some thoughts of her own to eke out the required length. Lucile was not a prolific thinker, but with the help of the Dictionary and “The Essentials of American History,” she was progressing. By the time Dorothy returned, the oration was completed, though Lucile was strangely reticent concerning it. On her desk, Dorothy found a neatly written French exercise.

“Oh, Lucile, that’s awfully good of you,” she said, herself slightly conscience stricken.

“It’s all right. You helped me, you know.”

“Is the oration all done?”

“Yes. I—I wish I hadn’t eaten those three cakes. I think I’ll go to bed early.”

Sophomore English recited from nine to ten, Miss Wallace desiring minds as fresh as possible. The morning following Lucile’s desperate attempt and final accomplishment, a growing pile of manuscript on Miss Wallace’s desk proved that youthful orators had been busy. Lucile and Virginia, coming a few moments late to class, deposited their papers on the top of the pile and took their seats. The recitation began, and for half an hour Miss Wallace questioned, listened, and explained. Then she closed her book, and motioned the girls to do the same.

“I’m going to introduce a custom which I have never introduced before,” she said with the smile that had made her beloved during her three years at St. Helen’s. “We have twenty-five minutes remaining. I am going to ask that two or three of our orations be read before the class. Virginia, you are on the top of the pile, perhaps a penalty for being late. We will hear your oration.”

Virginia crossed the room, conflicting emotions sweeping over her. As to reading her own composition, she was quite willing, since Miss Wallace desired it; but she knew that Lucile’s was next in order, and, as she turned to face the others, she saw Lucile’s agonized face. Could she do anything to prevent her coming next? She hesitated. There was nothing except to hope that Miss Wallace would note Lucile’s fear, and excuse her. Miss Wallace noticed the hesitation.

“Come, Virginia. We are waiting.” Virginia began to read, and as she read, she forgot Lucile in the hope that those listening might realize that the Pioneers of her own dear country were likewise Pilgrim Fathers. Her voice, sweet and clear, rang out earnestly:

“At this Thanksgiving season when we, as a nation, give honor to those brave men and women who founded the New England States, should we not also grant honor and homage to those other founders of our country—the children of the Pilgrim Fathers—the sturdy Pioneers of our Great West? In our praise of the Pilgrim Fathers, we often forget, I think, that there were other Pilgrims besides those at Plymouth Rock—other wanderers, who, perhaps, did not seek freedom to worship God, but who did seek better homes for their children, and who tried by their discoveries to show that we had a bigger, richer country than we knew about. They did not cross the angry seas of water, but they crossed a sea of land, our great prairies, where there were even more perils than those of the Atlantic—perils of Indians, wild animals, cyclones, and blizzards. They crossed the mountains, cutting their own trails before them, protecting the tired women and helpless children from danger; and those who went to the Far West crossed the great deserts, suffering great hunger and worse thirst, and sometimes leaving their bones upon the sands.”

Her voice as she read trembled with eagerness and pride. Into her mind crept the pictures of “old timers” at home, and the tales of bravery and endurance which they had told her. She read on, telling of more hardships, of greater bravery, extolling the lonely lives in the forests or mountains or on the great prairies. The girls listened eagerly. Many of them had never considered the Pioneers before. After all, they were worthy of praise. Virginia was holding her audience—all save the cowering Lucile, who was miserably knotting her handkerchief. The young orator closed with an appeal to her listeners:

“Oh, let us who are so greatly blessed with homes and friends and safety from the dangers that beset our forefathers, give thanks to God at this Thanksgiving season! And let us determine to show in our small lives the bravery and the perseverance and the honesty and the fear of doing wrong, which was shown by our Pilgrim forefathers of Massachusetts, and by the Pilgrim pioneers of our mountain and prairie States. Then shall we be more fit to be called real, true Americans!”

Virginia took her seat amid a burst of genuine applause, the most precious of which was her beloved teacher’s own commendation and look of approval.

“Now, Lucile, you are next,” continued the merciless Miss Wallace; and the trembling, cowering Lucile managed to cross the room, and take her own paper from the desk. For a moment Miss Wallace may have been tempted to withdraw her request. Virginia, whose pleasure in the reception of her own oration had quite disappeared in her pity for Lucile, kept hoping that she might reconsider; but she did not. Lucile must take her chances with the others, she was thinking. Here was an opportunity for overcoming her diffidence in class.

Lucile faced her audience, her eyes half angry, half frightened, her hands shaking. Her low trembling voice was hardly oratorical.

“Louder, please, Lucile,” commanded Miss Wallace.

Virginia studiously looked out of the window. Lucile recommenced, and this time, so absolutely astonished and overcome was Miss Wallace, that the orator proceeded without interruption to the end.

“Fourteen score and thirteen years ago,” read the trembling voice, “our Pilgrim forefathers landed on Plymouth Rock. The exact date was the 20th of December in the year of our Lord 1620. It was Monday when they got there and the women thought they would wash. All American women have washed ever since. Nothing daunted them, breaking waves dashing high, or a stern and rockbound coast, which is from a poem called ‘The Landing of the Pilgrims.’ They gave us bravery and inspiration and reverence and all kinds of memories.”

The orator at this juncture cleared her throat desperately, and seemed to gather strength. She proceeded more calmly, and in somewhat louder tone.

“How the very breaking waves of rockbound Cape Cod, situated on the eastern coast of Massachusetts, and so named for the fish that swim around it, were thrilled when our Pilgrim Fathers first landed on the shores of our vast continent, then unrevealed—America, named for a poor Italian author, Amerigo Vespucci. Many persons think the name would be better if it were Columbia, after the song, ‘Columbia, the gem of the ocean.’ Methinks the ocean eagle, a bird once inhabitating the shores of New England, but now extinct, himself burst into a paean of praise! How the giant branches of the woods against a stormy sky waved banners of praise. No trumpet that sings of fame announced their coming! No roll of stirring drums saluted them! But their gospel hymns of cheer burst upon the naked solitude!

 “They did not seek thus afar the jewels from the bowels of the earth, nor did they seek kings’ wealth or war’s spoils, but rather the pure shrine of a truly childlike faith. And almost the very first building they erected was a church!

 “Aye, Sophomore classmates, I think you ought to call this soil of your dear State holy ground, for they trod here, and they have left you an unstained freedom to worship the God of your Fathers, known of old!”

The poor orator managed to reach her seat without encountering the eyes of Virginia; but she could not be unconscious of the postures of her classmates. Some with crimson cheeks and shaking shoulders were studiously regarding their textbooks; others, with a complete disregard either of hygiene or of good manners, were chewing their handkerchiefs; the Blackmore twins were weeping on each others’ shoulders. Miss Wallace was fumbling in the drawer of her desk, and striving hard to control her quivering lips.

“This class is dismissed,” she managed to say, without looking up, and the class, unspeakably glad to be dismissed, literally ran from the room, leaving poor Lucile, upon whom the joke was very slowly dawning, to come out alone, cut her Latin recitation, and seek her room. Here she locked the door against her room-mate, and packed her suit-case for New York where she was to spend Thanksgiving, glad that a telegram from relatives there had asked for her early departure on the afternoon train. She did not appear at luncheon.

“Poor thing! I guess she won’t bite so easy next time,” said Priscilla, as they left the table, where Miss Wallace, still smiling, was arranging a tray for the orator. “Let’s be decent enough to play tennis on the back court till she goes to the station. I know she doesn’t want to see us, and I don’t blame her a bit. It’ll be forgotten when she gets back. You don’t feel bad about it, do you, Virginia?”

“No, not now, but it was truly awful, Priscilla, when she looked so scared in class. I felt like a criminal. But I feel better now I’ve written the note.”

“What note?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you, and I signed your name, too; but I knew you’d want to. You see, I thought ’twould be too bad to have her go away for Thanksgiving, thinking we didn’t like her and had been mean to her, because, you know, I don’t think Lucile is very quick about seeing through things, and I wanted her to know we liked her all the same. So I wrote a verse, and slipped it under her door. It said:

Priscilla threw her arm over Virginia’s shoulder, and drew her toward the tennis court.

“No, of course I don’t mind. I think ’twas mighty sweet of you to do it. You’re queer, Virginia, but I like you, and I’m glad you’re my roommate.”

Virginia’s eyes glowed with happiness.

“Glad!” she cried. “I’m gladder every day! And I just love you, Priscilla Winthrop!”

That evening Virginia added Experience III to the Decorum Chapter of her ever growing “Thought Book ”:

“In school it all depends upon how you feel inside when you do a thing as to whether it’s mean or not. Jokes are not mean, unless you feel malicious when you conceive them. Also, it doesn’t matter at all if a joke is played upon you. All it matters is whether you are a good sport and take it well.”

CHAPTER X—THANKSGIVING AND MISS WALLACE

Going home for the Thanksgiving holidays, though not forbidden, was discouraged at St. Helen’s. The time was very short, there being less than a week’s vacation allowed; and it had long been the custom, unless urgent demands came from home, for the girls to remain at school. It was not at all a hardship, for every one had such a royal good time. Moreover, the fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers and friends of the girls were always welcome, as far as accommodations in the village and at the school allowed; and for years Thanksgiving at St. Helen’s had been a gala season.

This year it seemed even especially lovely. Indian summer had waited to come with Thanksgiving, and every day of the vacation was a golden one. Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop came to spend the holidays with Priscilla; and Mrs. Williams, a sweet, motherly lady, whom Virginia loved at once, came with Jack to see Mary. Virginia liked Jack, too, and the four of them dreamed what Mary and Jack called “vain dreams” of a summer in Wyoming with Donald and Virginia. But the dreams were lovely anyway, and Mrs. Williams said with a mysterious smile that “perhaps they were not all in vain,” which remark straightway inspired the youthful dreamers to build more air-castles.

Virginia liked Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop, also; and her heart beat fast with happiness when Mrs. Winthrop told her how glad she was to have her daughter room with Virginia. Mrs. Meredith, a flashily dressed woman with too many jewels, came for a day to bring the already over-supplied Imogene some new clothes and candy enough to make her ill for a week. Vivian’s mother came, too. She had the same wistful, half-sad expression about her eyes which Vivian had, and Virginia liked her in spite of her silly clothes, and nervous solicitude over Vivian’s every step. There was something pathetic about Mrs. Winters. She might so easily have been so different! And she did truly want Vivian to be the right kind of a girl. If only she didn’t care so much for dress and style, Virginia thought to herself, then she might see that Imogene was not the best roommate for Vivian.

On Thanksgiving morning, an hour before dinner, Virginia was called to Miss King’s room. Wonderingly she crossed the campus to the office, where to her joy she found dear, brisk Aunt Nan, who had run down just for the day to see how her niece was getting along. Apparently Miss King had satisfied her before Virginia entered, for she seemed very proud of the gray-eyed little girl, who was growing taller every week.

“I really need to stay longer to let your dresses down, dear,” she said. “But at Christmas time we’ll have a seamstress, and you can’t grow much in four weeks. Your grandmother and aunt can hardly wait for Christmas, Virginia.”

This made Virginia happier than ever, for she had dreaded Christmas in Vermont without her father. But now it was really something to look forward to, since even grandmother wanted her so much. She and Aunt Nan talked with Miss King for a while, and then walked about the campus until time to dress for dinner. St. Helen’s had changed a good deal since Aunt Nan’s day. There had been only thirty girls then, she told Virginia, and two cottages, King and Willow. As they walked about, the Williamses and Winthrops, together with Anne and Dorothy, joined them, and Virginia proudly introduced Aunt Nan, who made them all laugh with the tales of her experiences and escapades at St. Helen’s years ago.

Then, the bell on the main building warning them, they hurried in to dress for dinner, which The Hermitage girls and those of Hathaway together with their friends were to have at Hathaway. Each year one cottage was hostess to another. This year Hathaway had bidden The Hermitage, Overlook was entertaining West, and King and Willow were celebrating together. It was a merry, happy family that assembled in Hathaway half an hour later. The tables, arranged in the form of a hollow square, were gay with centerpieces of yellow chrysanthemums, and strewn with yellow leaves, gathered weeks before and pressed for the occasion. There were dainty place-cards upon which the Hathaway girls with skillful fingers had drawn and painted pumpkins, log-houses, turkeys, and miniature Pilgrim Fathers and Mothers; and as each found her place at the table, she discovered also a slip of paper with an appropriate Thanksgiving verse. This form of Thanksgiving grace Miss King had originated. “Each one must give thanks for the day,” she always said; and before the table was seated, each read aloud her verse or bit of prose.

Miss King, who, year by year, dined with each cottage in turn, was this year the guest of the proud Hathaway girls. It was she who gave first the grace she had given on each Thanksgiving for many years:

“Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.

“Serve the Lord with gladness: come before His presence with singing.

“Know ye that the Lord He is God: it is He that hath made us, and not we ourselves; we are His people and the sheep of His pasture.

“Enter into His gates with thanksgiving, and into His courts with praise: be thankful unto Him, and bless His name.

“For the Lord is good; His mercy is everlasting; and His truth endureth to all generations. Praise ye the Lord.”

The others followed. Virginia’s was her favorite stanza from a new poem, which Miss Wallace had read to her only the night before. Miss Wallace must have selected it for her. She looked toward her gratefully, as she read in her clear voice:

Each having read her selection, they sang all together, as on every Thanksgiving Day for thirty years the St. Helen’s girls had done, that old, universal song of praise, which the world will never outgrow:

Then, with a renewed feeling of thankfulness and happiness, every one sat down, and the bountiful dinner was served. Virginia sat between Aunt Nan and Mary, and opposite the Blackmore twins, whose father had come to spend the day with them. He was the jolliest man imaginable, “even though he is a minister,” as Jean Blackmore often said, and kept the entire table laughing over his jokes and funny stories. Virginia mentally compared him with the Rev. Samuel Baxter, and could not resist whispering to Aunt Nan:

“Wouldn’t Dr. Baxter be shocked if he were here?”

“I wish he were!” Aunt Nan whispered back. “Maybe he’d be so shocked he couldn’t get back to Webster!”

They sat for a long time after dinner was over, talking with each other and enjoying the informal after-dinner speeches. As they left the dining-room, and passed into the big living-room to listen to some music, a large automobile stopped at the door, and a tall, white-haired gentleman in a gray overcoat stepped out and was about to ring the bell. But, before he had time, he was seized by a gray-eyed girl in a white dress, who had burst open the door, crying:

“Oh, Colonel Standish! Have you really, really come to see me?”

“Why, Miss Virginia,” said the Colonel, pausing to shake hands cordially with Aunt Nan, “I’ve been having Thanksgiving dinner with that grandson of mine at the Gordon school; and I told my man he must drive around this way to give me just a glimpse of you before taking me back to the city. And how goes everything, my dear? Is the ‘making of you’ progressing?” And he smiled in remembrance of their journey together.

Virginia was so delighted to see him that she could hardly speak.

“I think so, sir. Everything’s lovely anyway. Oh, Priscilla, come here!”

“I wonder if you’re not the girl who knows my grandson?” the Colonel asked Priscilla. “He was telling me he knew a St. Helen’s girl at Vineyard Haven this summer named Priscilla Winthrop.”

“Do you mean Carver Standish, sir? Why, of course, I know him. He taught me to swim this summer. I don’t know why I didn’t think of him when Virginia told me that your name was Colonel Standish,” said Priscilla to Virginia’s delight. To think Priscilla knew Colonel Standish’s grandson!

Then the Winthrops must be introduced, and the Williamses and Anne and Dorothy, together with Miss King and Miss Wallace, until the Colonel declared that he felt quite at home. It seemed about a minute to Virginia before he said that he must go, in spite of entreaties and cordial invitations to share the festivities of the afternoon. But he should come again, he said, and the next time he would bring his grandson. Virginia watched the big car as it disappeared below the hill; and later, as they drove together in the early evening to the station, she told Aunt Nan that the Colonel’s coming had made her day complete.

“Give my love to grandmother, Aunt Nan,” she said, as they told each other good-by, “and kiss her twice for me, if you think she’d like it.”

“I’m sure she would, Virginia,” answered Aunt Nan. “She’s counting the days until Christmas.” And the train that carried Aunt Nan northward left a very happy girl on the station platform.

But of all the happiness which Thanksgiving brought, the loveliest was the opportunity it gave her to know Miss Wallace better. Miss Green had gone to Boston for the holidays, and since The Hermitage was filled to overflowing, Priscilla and Virginia stayed in her room, giving their own to the Winthrops. Miss Green’s room was next to Miss Wallace’s; and since Priscilla was constantly with her father and mother, Virginia, though always asked with Dorothy to join the party, seized the privilege afforded her of being with Miss Wallace. Miss Wallace was also glad, for she loved Virginia. Policy, when school was in session, forbade, with total disregard for a teacher’s preferences, a greater intimacy with one girl than with another; but in the vacation days following Thanksgiving, when Virginia was more or less alone, their friendship grew and ripened into a close understanding between them.

Virginia discovered that Miss Wallace loved her best book friends—“Pollyanna,” Pip in “Great Expectations,” poor Smike in “Nicholas Nickleby,” David Balfour, Sydney Carton, Sohrab, and dear Margaret in “The Cloister and the Hearth.” They spent two lovely long evenings reading together before the open fire in Miss Wallace’s cheery room, and some hours out-of-doors. Also, to Virginia’s great delight, Miss Wallace expressed a desire to learn to ride; and thereupon followed a lesson with Miss Wallace on Napoleon, who, to her inexperienced eyes, was a veritable war-horse.

She was doubly glad and thankful for Miss Wallace’s interest and friendship on the Monday following Thanksgiving. It was the last day of the vacation, and golden like the others. The Winthrop family and the Williamses, together with Anne and Dorothy, had motored to Riverside, twenty miles distant, to take their homeward bound train from there instead of Hillcrest. Virginia had been asked to join the party, but had declined, preferring to ride, and secretly hoping that Miss Wallace might be able to ride also. But Miss Wallace had papers to correct, sorry as she was, and Virginia tried to be content with the sunshine, the black horse, and a thick letter from her father, which the postman gave her as she rode past him down the hill.

Securing her reins to the horn of her saddle, she tore open her letter. So motionless did she sit while she read its contents that the black horse quite forgot he had a rider, and stopped to nibble at the bare, wayside bushes. A few moments later he must have been surprised to feel a pair of arms about his neck, and a head against his mane; but he still nibbled on unconscious that the girl on his back was sobbing, and saying between her sobs,

“Oh, if you were Pedro, you might understand, but you haven’t any heart at all!”

Still he chewed the alder bushes. It was not often that he was allowed to take refreshment when this girl rode him, and he intended to make the best of his advantages. He felt her raise her head after some long moments; but as yet there was no signal for departure. Virginia was reading her letter again through blinding tears.

“I have something to tell you, my clear little daughter, which I know will grieve you deeply,” her father had written. It was this that had at first made her heart stand still. “Still, I feel that I should tell you, for sooner or later you must know. Dear old Jim left us last night to begin life over again Somewhere Else. He had been gradually failing for weeks, but he would not give up his work. Yesterday morning Pedro was taken ill, and Jim refused to leave him, saying over and over again that you had always trusted Pedro to him. He worked over him all day, undoubtedly saving Pedro’s life, and refusing to leave him, even though the other men insisted upon his giving place to them. At night the men left him to eat supper, for he still would not leave his post; and when they had finished and went back to the stable, Pedro was quite himself again, but they found Jim—asleep.

“I think you will feel as I do, dear, that it was like Jim to go that way—faithful to the end. We laid him to rest this morning in the side of the Spruce Ridge, near the great old tree to which you and he used to climb so often, especially when you were a little girl. You will remember how he loved the sweep of country from there. The morning was beautiful and clear—the very kind of day he loved best; and as we carried him up the hill, and laid him to rest, a meadow-lark sat on the stump of a quaking-asp and sang over and over again. That was the only prayer there was—that and our thoughts—but I am sure Jim would have chosen that for his farewell song.”

Virginia could read no more. She pulled the head of the startled black horse away from the alders, and struck him with her spur. He started furiously down the hill, through the pines, and out into the country road. On and on they went, mile after mile, but still in Virginia’s ears rang her father’s words, “Dear old Jim left us last night to begin life over again Somewhere Else.” Jim, the comrade of her life, her trusted friend and adviser, whom she would never see again!

Again she struck the black horse with her spur. But the pounding of his feet on the hard road could not drown her father’s words. And no one would understand, she cried to herself—not even Mary and Priscilla. To them Jim was a dear, interesting old man; to Dorothy a “character”; to Imogene a “common hired helper”! They would not be able to comprehend her grief, just as they had never been able to understand her love for him.

But riding did not help as she had hoped. She would go back. A half hour later she left the horse at the stable, and walked homeward, alone with her grief. She could not bear to see the girls just yet, so she turned aside and followed the woodsy little path that led to St. Helen’s Retreat. It was still there—comfortingly still. She pushed open the door, and entered the little chapel, through whose long and narrow windows the sunlight fell in golden shafts upon the floor, and upon the white cloth that covered the little altar. Obeying something deep within her heart, Virginia knelt by the altar rail; and somehow in the stillness, the beauty and faithfulness of Jim’s honest life overcame a little the sadness of his death.

How long she knelt there she did not know, but all at once she felt an arm around her, and heard Miss Wallace’s voice say:

“Why, my dear child, what is it? Come out into the sunlight and tell me. You will take cold in here!”

Together they went out under the pines where the sun was warm and bright; and sitting there, with Miss Wallace’s arms around her, Virginia told of her sorrow, and of dear old Jim, of whom Miss Wallace had already heard. Then she read her father’s letter, and the tears which stood in Miss Wallace’s eyes quite overflowed when she came to the part about the meadow-lark.

“And he loved the meadow-lark so!” sobbed Virginia. “It seems as though that one must have known!”

“Perhaps it did,” Miss Wallace said with dear comfort. “I like to think that birds know many things that we cannot—many of the sweetest things like that.”

“Oh, you’re such a help!” breathed Virginia, the burden upon her heart already lighter. “You see, the others can’t understand why I loved him so. But you just seem to know some way.”

“I think I do know, dear,” Miss Wallace told her as they rose to go up the hill. “I want you always to tell me the things that trouble you, Virginia, and the things that make you glad, because we’re real friends now, you know; real friends for always!”

And even in the midst of her grief, Virginia was happy—happy in the knowledge that she had gained a friend—a “real friend for always.” In the hard days that followed, when so few understood why it was that the merry girl from Wyoming had suddenly grown less merry, that friendship was a tower of strength to Virginia—giving her courage and happiness when she most needed both; and proving, as it has proven so many times, that there is no sweeter, finer influence in life than the mutual helpfulness born of a friendship between a teacher and one of “her girls.”

CHAPTER XI—THE DISCIPLINING OF MISS VAN RENSAELAR

“On, of course, Dorothy, do as you like! If you’d rather play tennis with the Wyoming Novelty than go down to the village with me, go ahead. Don’t think for a moment that I care!”

Imogene leaned idly back among the pillows, while Dorothy studied the rug with a flushed face.

“You know it isn’t that I’d rather, Imogene; but Virginia and I made an agreement that I’d teach her some tennis serves, and she’d teach me to ride. She’s given me two lessons already, and now that the indoor courts are fixed I thought we’d play this afternoon, that’s all.”

“Go and play then. Don’t mind me. I’m comfortable!”

Dorothy was silent for a moment. “I don’t see why you dislike Virginia so, Imogene,” she said at last.

“Dislike her? I don’t dislike her, or like her either for that matter. I don’t care one way or the other. My friends have never been brought up in the backwoods, and don’t weep over dead cow-boys; but, of course, you’re at liberty to choose yours wherever you like.”

The sarcasm in Imogene’s tone was biting. Dorothy struggled with a strong desire to defend Virginia, and another as strong to keep in Imogene’s favor. Completely ashamed of herself, she said nothing, and Imogene mercifully changed the subject.

“Has our Dutch aristocrat returned your penknife?”

“Not yet. How about your hammer?”

“I haven’t seen it since she borrowed it, and I’ve ruined my nail-file trying to open the box of cake mother sent. She has her nerve! I found this on my desk this afternoon.”

She showed Dorothy a slip of paper on which was written in a heavy black hand: