FOLLOWING THE GLEAM
When the _Inverness_ bumped against the wharf at Algonquin, the strange
girl, standing with her bag in her hand, waiting to step ashore, was
surprised to see the late enemy of the boat drive down upon the dock.
She was still more surprised to see that his face was beaming with good
nature, as he hailed the captain. But then, she did not, as yet, know
Lawyer Edward Brians.
"Hech, Jamie, lad!" he shouted. "Hoot! Awa wi ye, mon! Are ye no
gaun tae get the fowk ashore the nicht?"
And then there was a long outpouring of strange indistinguishable
sounds, which caused the Ancient Mariner to stop smoking and
expectorate into Lake Algonquin with a disgusted "Huh!" For Lawyer
Ed's Gaelic, though fluent, was a thing to make Highland ears shudder.
At the first appearance of the buggy, the captain had turned away in
haughty silence, and went on with his task of seeing that his
passengers were safely landed, without so much as a glance at his
talkative friend.
But his frigid reception seemed only to tickle Lawyer Ed's sense of
amusement. He leaned back in his seat, shut up his eyes, and laughed
loudly. "Well, for downright pigheadedness and idiotic pertinacity,
commend me to a Scotchman every time," he cried delightedly.
He threw the lines over the dashboard, and sprang out of the buggy,
straight, alert and vigorous.
"It's no use, your trying that air of dignity on me, Jimmie McTavish!"
he cried, striding over the gang-plank. "You nearly made me lose a
train and a client into the bargain. And if I had lost him, that bit
of business of yours wouldn't have been worth a puff of smoke, my braw
John Hielanman!" He slapped the captain on the back, and a peculiar
change came over the latter's face. There was no man in Algonquin who
could remain angry at Lawyer Ed and be hammered by him on the back. He
was voted the most exasperating person in the world, by people of all
ages, and many a time an indignant individual would announce publicly
that dire vengeance was about to be launched upon his wicked head. But
when all Algonquin waited for the blow to fall, presently Lawyer Ed and
the injured party would appear in the most jovial companionship, and
once more his execution was postponed. It was as usual this time, the
captain's wrath broke, shattered by that friendly blow upon the back.
He still kept up a show of taciturnity, by a grumbling monologue
concerning the undignified procedure of Irishmen in general, but the
Irishman laughed so loud that Captain Jimmie was deceived into thinking
he had said something very witty indeed, and laughed too, in spite of
himself.
"I'm hunting a young lady," cried Lawyer Ed; "the new teacher. Miss
Armstrong hailed me in passing and said I was to drive her up."
"Oh, yes, Mr. Brians," cried Alfred Wilbur, bustling up, "she's over
there. I was going to show her the way up myself. It's too bad to
trouble you, when you're so busy."
Lawyer Ed eyed him sternly.
"What! Do you think I'd allow you, in all your magnificence, to burst
upon the vision of an innocent young girl, first go off, and have her
fall in love with you, and get her heart broken? Not much, young man!
We'll bring you on the stage gradually. A few ugly old married men
like Jimmie here, or a withered old bachelor like myself, will do as
preliminaries, and in about six months or so,--ah, well, well,--How do
you do, my dear young lady? I'm chairman of the school board and I
just drove down to tell you that you are very welcome to Algonquin."
He had pushed Afternoon Tea Willie quite out of sight and followed the
captain to where the new teacher stood alone. He took her hand and
shook it vigorously, his kind blue eyes beaming a welcome.
"I'm sure we are glad you've come!" he declared again, still more
heartily, for he saw the homesickness in the big eyes. "You'll be as
happy here as a bob-o-link in a field of clover. I needn't ask you if
Captain McTavish took good care of you on the way up. He couldn't help
it, with that Hieland heart of his, eh, Jimmie, lad? Whenever we want
to make a good impression upon a stranger, Miss Murray, we always see
that he comes to Algonquin by boat, for by the time the _Inverness_
carries him for an afternoon, he's so prejudiced in our favour, he
never gets over it. Eh, my braw John Hielanman?"
He slapped the captain on the back again, and his forgiveness was
complete.
"Now, Miss Murray, I shall show you up to your new home. Give me your
bag. Never mind, Alfred Tennyson. You trot round there and tell young
Peter to see about that trunk. I'll send a wagon for it. Good-bye,
Jimmie. I'll see you at the meeting to-morrow night."
He helped Helen into his buggy and tucked the lap-rug around her, while
Mr. Alfred Wilbur held his horse's head, though Lawyer Ed's horse,
everyone knew, would stand for a week untethered. He jumped in and
started off with a dash that nearly precipitated poor Afternoon Tea
Willie into the lake, and away they rattled up the street to the utter
discomfiture of the yellow dog and the yellow-and-white dog that were
fighting in the middle of Main Street.
It was just the waiting time before the six-o'-clock bells and whistles
would break forth into a joyful clamour and send every one out on the
street; so the place was very quiet. The pretty streets rose up from
the lake, all cool and shady under their green canopy. It was like a
little town dropped down into the woods, and in spite of her
homesickness and the quiet loneliness of it all, the new-comer felt a
sensation of pleasure.
Lawyer Ed gave her no chance to be lonely. He chatted away cheerfully,
pointing out this and that place of interest. As they turned off Main
Street up a wide avenue of swaying elms, he touched his horse into
greater speed, and leaning far over to one side, called her attention
to something across the street.
"Look there, now!" he cried impressively. "Isn't that a fine building?
Just take a good look at this, Miss Murray. I don't think that in all
Algonquin there is a place like it."
"I--I don't think I saw," said Helen, looking about her puzzled, for
they had passed nothing but a row of very modest homes. She looked at
him enquiringly, to find him leaning back, his eyes shut, and shaking
with laughter.
"Never mind. Don't hurt your eyes, child. There's nothing there. But
we've just passed my office, on the opposite side, and I saw from the
corner of my eye about a half-dozen people waiting for me, all in a bad
humour. It's just as well that I shouldn't get a better view of them.
Tut, tut, don't apologise. I don't want to hurry back. Patience is a
virtue every man should practise, and I believe in giving my clients a
whack at it whenever I can. There's the Manse. I've heard Dr. Leslie
speak of your father. We knew him by report if not personally. You'll
find Doctor Leslie a fine pastor. He'll make you feel at home."
He glanced back towards his office and laughed again. "I'm trying
to--well not exactly retire--but to ease off a bit on my business. And
I'm going to have a partner, the son of an old friend. Why, he came
part of the way on the boat with you."
"Oh, yes, the young man who took the terrible leap," she said. She did
not want to confess she had met him before.
"That's nothing for Rod!" laughed Lawyer Ed. "He'd jump twice that
distance. Ah, he's a great lad, is Roderick. He's going to make
another such man as his father, and that's about the highest praise I
can give him. Old Angus McRae--well you must meet him to know what
he's like. I believe I think more of Angus McRae--outside my own
immediate family--than of any living person, of course always excepting
Madame. Bless me! You haven't met her yet, of course?"
"Why, no, I don't think so. Who is she?"
"Madame, my dear Miss Murray, is the handsomest and cleverest and most
delightful young lady in all Canada or the United States. And she's
your Principal, so you may think yourself fortunate. You two girls
will have a grand time together."
Helen felt not a little relieved. A Principal who was a girl of about
her own age, and who was evidently possessed of so many charms, would
surely not be a formidable person to face on the dread to-morrow.
They had been steadily climbing the hills, under great low-branched
maples and elms, and past scented gardens. And now they pulled up in
front of a big square brick house set primly in a square lawn.
"Now, here's your boarding-house, my dear," said her guide, springing
down and helping her to alight. "This is Grandma Armstrong's place.
Remember that she's grandmother to nearly all Algonquin, and don't
laugh at her peculiarities when there's any one round. You'll have to
when you're alone, just as a safety-valve. You'll like the daughters.
The elder one is a bit stiff, but they're fine ladies." He had rung
the bell by this time, and now it was opened by a tall handsome lady,
slightly over middle age. The Misses Armstrong, because of an old
acquaintance with her father, had stepped aside from the strict rules
they had hitherto followed, and had taken the new school teacher as a
boarder. Helen had often heard her father speak of them and knew, the
moment the door opened, that this was Miss Armstrong, the eldest, who
had been a belle in her father's day. She belonged so obviously to the
house, that Helen had a complete sense of fitness at the sight of her.
Like it she was tall, erect and fine looking, in a stately, stiff
fashion.
Lawyer Ed presented his charge in his most affable manner, and Miss
Armstrong smiled upon him graciously and upon her with some reserve. A
boarder, after all, had to be kept at a distance, even though she were
the daughter of an old friend.
"And how is Grandma, to-day?" enquired Lawyer Ed. "And Annabel? Isn't
she home?"
"Mother has gone to bed this afternoon, Edward, but she is very well, I
thank you. She will be disappointed when she hears you were here.
Annabel has gone to the meeting of the Club. She will be back
presently. I remained at home to welcome Miss Murray."
"Good-bye just now, then, my child," he said paternally, taking Helen's
hand. He saw the homesick anguish returning to her big eyes, and he
squeezed the hand until it hurt. "You'll have a great time in
Algonquin, never fear. The air here will bring the roses back to your
cheeks. Won't it, Elinor?"
Miss Armstrong agreed and bade him a gracious good-afternoon, moving
out on the steps to see him to the gate. She then led the way up the
long steep stair. The ceilings of Rosemount were very high, and every
step echoed weirdly. They went along another hall upstairs flanked by
two terrible pictures, one a scene of carnage on land--Wellington
meeting Blücher on the field of Waterloo, the other an equally dreadful
scene on water--Nelson's death on the _Victory_. Her bedroom was a big
airy place, stiff and formal and in perfect order. The ceiling again
impressed her with its vast distance from the floor. In the centre of
this one, like the others, was a circular ornamental device of plaster;
flowers and fruit and birds, and great bunches of hard white grapes
that looked ready to fall heavily upon one's head. One end of the room
was almost filled with a black marble mantel and over it hung a picture
of Queen Victoria with her family, in the early days of her married
life. There was a big low bed of heavy walnut, four high windows with
stiff lace curtains, a circular marble-topped table and a tiny writing
desk. Miss Armstrong assisted her to remove her hat, expressing the
hope that she had had a pleasant trip from Barbay. Helen did not say
that her heart had been aching all the way. She merely assured her
that the trip had been very comfortable indeed, and that Captain
McTavish had done everything to make it enjoyable.
"Jimmie McTavish is a kind creature," said Miss Armstrong. "Very
ignorant, and too familiar entirely; but he is well-meaning, for all
that. Now, I hope you will feel perfectly at home with us here, Miss
Murray. Your father's daughter could not but be welcome at Rosemount.
Indeed, I am afraid, had you not been a clergyman's daughter, I should
never have consented to taking you. Having any one to board was so
foreign to our minds. But Mr. Brians begged us to take you. You see
he is chairman of the school board, and always sees to it that the
young persons who teach have suitable homes."
"I am so sorry if my coming has inconvenienced you," stammered Helen,
for Miss Armstrong's manner was very impressive.
"Oh, not at all, I assure you. When we heard who you were, we
consented with pleasure. We have so much more room in this big house
than we need. There is a very large family of us, Miss Murray, as you
will discover, but now there are only my mother and my sister and I
left at Rosemount." Her face grew sad. "But indeed I sometimes have
thought recently," she added, growing stately again, "that my dear
father would turn in his grave if he knew we were filling Rosemount
with boarders."
She paused a moment, and the strange girl was wondering miserably if
she should take her bag and move out to some other place, rather than
risk disturbing her father's old friend in his last long sleep, when
Miss Armstrong went on. "I hope you won't mind, Miss Murray, you are
to be as one of the family, you know, and if you would be so good--"
she hesitated and a slight flush rose in her face.
"Yes?" asked Helen wonderingly.
"If you would be so good as to not use the word _board_. I don't know
why it should be so offensive to me," she added with a little laugh.
"My ears are very sensitive, I suppose. But if you wouldn't mind
saying, in the course of your conversation, that you are _staying_ with
the Rosemount Armstrongs, it would please me so much."
"Certainly, I shall remember," said Helen, much relieved.
"Thank you so much. And now if you would like to rest for a little
after your journey you may. Supper will be served in the course of
half-an-hour."
Helen felt a lump growing in her throat that made the thought of food
choke her. But she dared not refuse. To remain alone in that big
echoing room, was only to invite thoughts of home and other far off and
lost joys.
When Miss Armstrong had left her, and her trunk had come bumping up the
back stairs and been deposited in the vast closet, she sat down on the
black haircloth chair and looked hopelessly around the big dreary room.
There rose before her a vision of her own room at the old home, the
room that she and her sister Betty had shared. It had rose-bordered
curtains and rose-festooned wall-paper and pink and white cushions.
And it had a dear mother-face peeping in at the door to chide her
gently if she sat too late writing those long letters to Dick.
The memory of it all came over her with such a rush that she felt she
must throw herself upon that broad white bed and sob herself sick. But
she sat still, holding her hands tightly clenched, and choking back the
tears. She had work to do and she must be ready for that work. To
give way in private meant inefficiency in public to-morrow.
School-teaching was a new, untried field of labour for her, and if she
went to bed and cried herself to sleep, as she wanted to do, she would
have a headache for to-morrow and she would fail. And she must not
fail, she told herself desperately; she dared not fail, for Mother was
depending upon her success. And yet she had no idea how that success
was to be gained. She knew only too well that she was not fitted for
her task. She had never wanted to teach school, and had never dreamed
she would need to. Her place had always been at home, and a big place
she had filled as Mother's help and the minister's right hand. But her
father had insisted upon her taking her teacher's certificate. "It's
easy to carry about, Nellie," he was wont to say, "and may come useful
some day."
So Helen had gone, with good-natured indulgence of Father's whim, and
studied at a training school, with one eye on her books and the other
watching for Dick to come up the street. And when she brought home her
despised diploma, there was a diamond ring on the hand that placed it
on her father's desk. That had been a year ago. And almost
immediately after, her father had been taken from them. The old home
went next. The boys and girls scattered to earn their own living.
Mother had gone with Betty, who had married, and who lived away in the
West. And then the last and best treasure had been taken, the diamond
with its marvellous lights and colours, and with it had gone out all
the light and colour of life.
She was just twenty-three, and she had been given the task of working
out a new strange life unaided, with nothing ahead of her but work and
loneliness.
At first she had given way to a numb despair, then necessity and the
needs of the family aroused her. There was something for her to do,
something that had to be done, and back of all the wreck of her life,
dimmed by clouds of sorrow, there stood her father's God. In spite of
all the despair and dismay she felt instinctively He must be somewhere,
behind it all. She did not know as yet, that that assurance spelled
hope. But she knew that there was work for her and there was Mother
waiting until she should make her a home.
She sprang up, as her misery threatened to overwhelm her again, and
began swiftly to change her dress and arrange her hair. She pulled
back the stiff curtains of one of the tall windows and leaned out. A
soft blue haze, the first glimpse of September's tender eyes, was
settling on the distant hills. The sun was setting, and away up the
street towards the west flamed a gold and crimson sky, and away down in
the east flamed its gold and crimson reflection on the mirror of Lake
Algonquin. From the garden below, the scent of the opening nicotine
blossoms came up to her.
She was sitting there, trying to admire the beauty of it all, but her
heart protesting against the feeling of utter loneliness it bred, when
there came a sharp tap on the door. It opened the next moment and a
young lady tripped in.
"Good evening, Miss Murray. I just bounced in to say welcome to
Rosemount. I'm so glad you've come. I've just been dying to have a
girl in the house of my own age."
She caught Helen's two hands in hers with genuine kindliness.
She was a plump fair lady with fluffy yellow hair and big blue eyes.
She was dressed in a pink flowered muslin trimmed with girlish frills
and wore a big hat wreathed with nodding roses. Helen was puzzled.
This wasn't Miss Annabel, then; for her mother had said the Misses
Armstrong were both over forty.
"I'm Annabel Armstrong," she said, settling the question. Helen gave
her a second look and saw that Miss Annabel carried signs of maturity
in her face and form, albeit she carried them very blithely indeed.
"And I can't tell you how glad I am you've come. You'll just adore
Algonquin. It's the gayest place on earth, a dance or a tea or a
bridge or some sort of kettle-drum every day. What a love of a dress!
It's the very colour of your eyes, my dear. Come away now; you must
meet Mother. She always takes supper in her own room now, and I must
carry it to her. Our little maid is about as much use as a pussy-cat
and if I'm not in the kitchen every ten minutes to tramp on her tail
she'll go to sleep. Come along!"
She danced away down the hall, Helen following her, feeling extremely
old and prim. Grandma Armstrong's bedroom was at the back of the house
overlooking the orchard and kitchen-garden. She was sitting up in bed,
a very handsome little old lady in cap and ribbons. She gave the
strange girl's hand a gentle pressure.
"Here she is, Muzzy," cried Miss Annabel in an apologetic tone. "It's
too bad you didn't see her sooner, but she was so busy."
"Indeed I generally notice that I am left to the last, when any new
person comes to the house," said Grandma Armstrong in a grieved tone.
"Well, my dear, I am pleased to see the Rev. Walter Murray's son in my
house. You look like him--yes, very much, just the image of him in
fact, only of course he was a man and wore a portmanteau when I knew
him."
Grandma Armstrong's separate faculties were all alert and as keen as
they had ever been in youth. But some strange lack of connection
between her tongue and her memory, seemed to have befallen the old
lady, so that they did not always agree, and she was wont to
intersperse her otherwise quite intelligent conversation with words
having no remotest connection with the context.
"A moustache, you mean, Muzzy dear," said her daughter. "Mother
forgets you know," she added, in a hasty, low apology to Helen.
"Why do you interrupt me, Annabel? I said a moustache. I hope you
sleep well here, my dear. I had that room of yours for some time, but
I had to move back here, I could never get to sleep after they put up
the Israelite at the corner. It shone right over my bed. Let me see
now. You are the second daughter, are you not? Your father was a fine
man, my dear. Yes, indeed. We knew him well as a student. He
preached one summer in--where was that, Annabel? Alaska?"
"Muskoka, Mother."
"Oh, yes, Muskoka, and the Rev. Walter Hislop, your father, was there
as a student."
"Murray, you mean, Mother."
"Don't interrupt me, Annabel. Your uncle preached there two summers,
my dear, and I thought my daughter Annabel and he--"
"It was Elizabeth, Mother, not me! Good gracious, how old do you think
I am?" demanded Miss Annabel, quite alarmed.
"Oh, Elizabeth, of course. I really thought she and your brother, the
Rev. Mr. McIntosh, should have become engaged before the summer was
over. But we had other plans for our daughter, and we thought it wiser
for her to go to the sea-shore the next summer."
"Now, Mother," said Miss Annabel tactfully. "Miss Murray doesn't want
to hear all that ancient history. She has to get her supper. She's
tired and hungry."
Helen slept soundly that night. Two big windows of her room looked out
to the west where, beyond the town, ran a high wooded ridge, and the
low organ tones of the evening wind singing through the trees made her
forget her grief and lulled her to sleep.
She set off to her work early in the morning, nervous and apprehensive.
Her hostesses all wished her well. Miss Armstrong, in her quiet
stately fashion hoped she would find her employment congenial, and
Grandma expressed the desire that Miss Carstairs would enjoy her work
at the cemetery, a remark which the worried young teacher felt was more
appropriate than the kindly old lady guessed. Miss Annabel followed
her to the gate, with instructions regarding the road to school. She
plucked a big crimson dahlia from its bed and stuck it in the belt of
Helen's blue dress.
"Good luck, dearie, and cheer up!" she cried, seeing the look in the
sad blue eyes. "School teaching's heaps of fun, I feel sure. Don't
worry about it. We're going to have great times in the evenings.
There's always something on. Bye bye, and good luck," and she tripped
up the garden path waving her hand gaily.
Helen had scarcely gone half a block under the elm boughs, when she
heard her name called out in a musical roar from far up the street
behind her. She had not been in Algonquin twenty-four hours, but she
knew that voice. She was just a bit scandalised as she turned to see a
man waving his cane, as he hurried to overtake her. But she had not
yet learned that no one minded being hailed half-a-mile away by Lawyer
Ed.
He was accompanied by a lady, a tall woman of such ample proportions,
that she had some ado to keep up with Lawyer Ed's brisk step. She wore
a broad old-fashioned hat tied under her round chin, and a gay flowered
muslin dress that floated about her with an easy swaying motion. She
wore, too, a pair of soft low-heeled slippers, that gave forth a
soothing accompaniment to the rhythm of her movements. She was
surrounded by a perfect bodyguard of children. They danced behind her
and ahead of her, they clung to her hands and peeped from the flowing
muslin draperies, while she moved among them, serene and smiling like a
great flower surrounded by a cloud of buzzing little bees.
"Good morning, good morning!" shouted the chairman of the school board.
"Abroad bright and early and ready for work! Well, well, well," he
added admiringly, as he shook her hands violently, "if the Algonquin
air hasn't commenced to do its work already! Now, my dear, brace up
and don't be frightened. It is my duty as chairman of the school board
to introduce you to your stern principal. Miss Murray, I have the
honour of presenting you to Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby, known in private
life as Mrs. Adam; but if you are as nice as you look, you may one day
be admitted to the inner circle of her friends, and then you will be
allowed to call her Madame."
As the lady took her hand and turned upon her a smile in proportion to
her size, Helen suddenly realised why she had seemed so familiar even
at the first glance. She was exactly like the wonderful fairy who
cared for the water-babies at the bottom of the sea. And the
resemblance was further heightened by the presence of the babies
themselves who came swarming about to settle all over her, and when
shoved out of the way, only came swarming back.
"Bless me, what a mistake!" she cried. "It's you that's the Principal
and I'm the assistant. I'm so thankful you're young, my dear. I can't
stand old folks, and middle-aged people are my abhorrence. I told
Edward Brians that if he put me down there all alone with a middle-aged
woman,--a young gay thing like me,--I just wouldn't stand it."
"I don't think there are any old people in Algonquin, are there?" asked
Helen.
They were moving on down the street now, and their going was something
of a triumphal procession. At every turn some one joined them,--young
or old, and from every side greetings were called after them, until the
bewildered stranger felt as if she had become part of a circus parade.
She was feeling almost light-hearted as the gay throng moved forward,
when they passed their escort's office, and in the doorway stood the
young Mr. McRae who reminded her so sadly of the past.
"Hooray, Rod," roared his chief. "A graun beginnin', ma braw John
Hielanman! Come down here off that perch and do your respects to the
March of Education!"
Roderick obeyed very willingly. He had been a pupil of Madame's in his
primary days, notwithstanding her extreme youth, and she welcomed him
home and hoped he would be as good a boy as he had been when she had
him. Then Lawyer Ed introduced him to the new teacher. She shook
hands, but she did not say they had met before, and Roderick tactfully
ignored the fact also, for which he fancied she gave him a glance of
gratitude. They moved on but soon the March of Education was again
interrupted. Across the street, Doctor Archie Blair, with his black
satchel in his hand and a volume of Burns beneath his arm, was
preparing to climb into his buggy for a drive into the country. He
stepped aside for a moment and crossed the street to tell Madame how
glad he was to see her back from her holidays, for the town had been a
howling wilderness without her.
"This is Miss Murray, the new teacher, I know," he added before Lawyer
Ed could introduce him. "You will learn soon, Miss Murray, that if you
want to find a stranger in Algonquin, especially a strange young lady,
you have just to hunt up Lawyer Brians and there she is."
"And a very good place to be, Archie Blair," said Madame. "If every
one looked after strangers as well as he does there wouldn't be many
lonely people."
"Hear, hear, Madame," roared Lawyer Ed. "No one knows my virtues as
you do. Did ye hear yon, Aerchie mon?"
"The trouble is, Miss Murray," said the doctor, without paying the
slightest attention to the other two, "the trouble is that this
gentleman doesn't give any one else a chance to do a good deed. He
does everything himself. No one in Algonquin minds neglecting his
duty, for he knows that Mr. Brians would be there ahead of him and get
it done anyway, so where's the use of bothering? I'm a member of the
school board, and I might be betraying my trust if I encouraged you to
neglect your work, but I feel I ought to tell you that if any day you
would like to take a few hours off, why, do so, Mr. Brians will teach
for you."
There was a great deal more banter and fun, and the March of Education
was resumed with small recruits in clean pinafores darting out of homes
here and there to join it. It ended at last at the battered gate of
the little schoolhouse. The East Ward was a small part of the town,
consisting mostly of lake, so the population was not very large. There
were but two grades, of which Mrs. Adam taught the younger.
The children scampered over the yard, and swarmed into the building.
Lawyer Ed ran about, scattering pink "bull's-eyes" all over the floor
and yard, calling, "Chukie, Chukie!" with the whole school at his heels
like a flock of noisy chickens. And when he had the place in an
uproar, he shouted good-bye and rushed away in a fit of laughter.
Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby sank heavily into a chair, with a relieved
smile, and said, as Helen hung up her hat, and looked about
apprehensively, "Now, my dear child, I remember my first day at
school-teaching distinctly, and if yours is anything the same, you are
scared to death. So if you want to know anything or need any help, you
just come right along into my room, and we'll fix it up. And whatever
you do, don't worry. We're going to have just a glorious time
together, you and I."
And the new teacher went to her first day's work with a heart far less
heavy than she would have believed possible. Far ahead had begun to
show the first faint glimmer of the light that was leading her through
sorrow and pain to a higher and better life. And all unconsciously she
had begun to follow its gleam.