"Go ahead," he said.
I dipped into my pocket-book, and brought forth my last effusion.
As I read, he brought his hand to his face, shading it in such a way
that I could not see it, and when I had finished, he was silent for
so long that I did not know whether I had made an impression upon him
or whether he was amused, as most people were when I read my poems to
them. I tremblingly folded my paper and replaced it in my bag; then I
waited for him to speak. After a while he took his hand down. His face
was still grave, but away back in his eyes there was the kindliest
gleam of interest. I felt happy and warmed by that look. Then he said
something that sent my heart thudding down low again.
"Wouldn't you like to go to school?" said he.
"I did go to school," I said.
"Well, I mean to--er--school to prepare you for college."
The question hurt me. It was a visible criticism of my precious poem.
Had that, then, revealed my pathetic condition of ignorance? I said
roughly, for I felt like crying:
"Of course college is out of the question for me. I have to earn my
living; but I expect to acquire an education gradually. One can educate
herself by reading and thinking. My father often said that, and he's a
college man--an Oxford graduate."
"That's true," said the man rather hurriedly, and as if he regretted
what he had just said, and wished to dismiss the subject abruptly: "Now
I'm going to take you back to your seat. We'll be in Richmond very
shortly now."
We got up, but he stopped a minute, and took a card from his pocket. He
wrote something on it, and then gave it to me.
"There, little girl, is my name and address," he said. "If there ever
comes a time when you--er--need help of any kind, will you promise to
come to me?"