"I'll write one for everybody," I declared, with a glow of pleasure.
"But don't tell anyone," Janet cautioned.
I couldn't understand why she insisted on making a secret of it. It
seemed so strange. But I promised to tell no one, not even my own
mother.
We always had two days in which to write our compositions. I did ten in
that time. I wrote them out roughly on great sheets of wrapping paper. I
wrote them up in the garret by the window where the wasps lived, and I
had such a grand time that I never noticed the wasps at all; but went on
and on finding something new to say every minute, and loving to say it.
Only it was hard when the sentences happened to come out beautifully not
to be able to show them to my mother. But I had promised. However, the
very best composition of all was to be my own, and that I might show to
her. I remember it was on "The Beauty of Truth."
"It's very nice," my mother said, when it was put in her hand.
"It's--it's almost like a sermon!"
She looked at the composition, with an odd smile of pleasure, and then
she drew me to her and kissed me fondly.
"I think Rhoda would make a fine wife for a minister," I heard her tell
my father, excitedly. "She's got so much natural piety!"
I was very happy that morning as I went to school. I carried my roll of
wrapping paper under my arm, and when I reached Mrs. Garfield's I
divided the compositions among the girls, so that they might each copy
her own. Afterwards they were all handed up to Miss Lucy and school
began.
Miss Lucy took a long time over the compositions. She read them and read
them. She looked astonished, and, also, a trifle pleased. At last she
gathered them all up in a bundle, and went out of the room. It was very
quiet in the room. Every little girl sat at her desk and studied very
busily. All except Janet McLarin. She opened the side window and climbed
out. The last we could see of her was her bright hair vanishing around
the corner with a rush. Then we could hear the sound of Miss Lucy's
stout boots coming along the hall, and a swish of silk beside her.
"She's bringing Mrs. Garfield!" Grace whispered, horror-stricken.
Up to that time I had not been frightened, for there was nothing to be
frightened about; but fear is contagious, and somehow I began to be
scared myself.
Mrs. Garfield stood up in front of us with a roll of papers in her hand.
"Young ladies," she began, "I have something very serious to say to you,
something which it gives me great pain to say. Your compositions have
come in this morning, and your teacher has been surprised at them. She
has referred the matter to me. I in my turn have been surprised."
She paused. The room was very, very still.
"I find myself driven to the conclusion that not one of these
compositions has been written by a member of this class. They have been
written by somebody else. They have been written by an outsider. I
demand to know who has written them."
I felt very funny inside my breast. My eyes were full of tears. I looked
at Mrs. Garfield standing up there, very severe, and somewhat angry,
and at Miss Lucy beside her, with a bewildered expression. I looked at
rows of pale little girls at their desks. I looked at Grace. Oh, it was
cruel, cruel! They had never told me that I was doing wrong. I had loved
them so, and given them my best, and they had all betrayed me! Even
Grace! Then I thought of "The Beauty of Truth." I rose up from my seat.
"I did it, Mrs. Garfield," I confessed, brokenly. "I wrote them myself."
Then I cried, my heart breaking inside of me.
There was a rustle at the next desk.
"It isn't Rhoda's fault," Grace's voice exclaimed. "She wrote them, but
we asked her to. We are all bad, just as bad as she is. And Janet
McLarin who has gone out of the window is the worst of us all!"
If fear is contagious, so is confession. There was a perfect storm of
tearful explanations and excuses. They all told Mrs. Garfield how it had
been done, and they showed her the wrapping paper. One little girl
offered me a piece of chewing gum quite openly to comfort me, and Miss
Lucy dried my eyes on her own pocket-handkerchief.