FAREWELL WORDS.
There was little difficulty when the time came in deciding the four
essays to be chosen. Kate Underwood's was in most respects the best,
and would take the place usually filled by the valedictory. Dorothy
Ottley's was the next strongest, and by far the most thoughtful. To no
one's surprise as much as to her own, Gladys Philbrick's was the most
brilliant, and Edna Grant's, the best scholar in English literature,
the most scholarly.
So the important question was settled a week before commencement, and
the young ladies were given their choice, either to read their pieces
or to speak them.
Greatly to the surprise of the teachers they all chose to speak them,
and the elocution teacher was at once put to drilling them for the
occasion.
The choice was pleasantly accepted by the school. Every one of the
four were favorites, and whatever disappointment the rejected
essayists felt, they kept wisely to themselves.
Susan Downer's essay on "Truth" was a miserable failure, and a
disgraced future was the only one she could see opening before her.
She could not summon courage to make a confession to Miss Ashton; she
decided, after hours and hours of troubled and vexatious thought, to
be silent, trusting to her speedy removal from the school to silence
all further questionings.
Such a busy week as this was now at the academy! The mail brought
every day piles of letters to teachers and scholars, which must be
answered. Invitations were to be sent. All the preliminaries of a
great gathering were to be attended to, and both the excitement and
the listlessness attendant on a closing year were to be met and
combated.
It would be interesting if we could tell the story of each individual
during this eventful period, but it would fill a whole volume by
itself, so we must be contented by telling simply of those with whom
we have had the most to do.
Miss Ashton tried as far as she could, with so much else to attend to,
to have a little personal conversation with every pupil who had been
under her care for the year. Sometimes she saw them alone, sometimes
she took them in classes, according to the importance of what she had
to say. Before talking with Marion she sent the following short letter
to her mother:--
MY DEAR MRS. PARKE,--I should esteem it a personal favor if you
would allow your daughter Marion to remain with me free from
expense to you for another year. She has proved in all regards
not only an excellent scholar, but, as I wrote you before, the
influence of her lovely Christian character has been of great
value to me. I shall be glad to do all I can to help her into
the influential and well-balanced future I see before her. You
need have no fear that a feeling of indebtedness to me will be a
burden to her, delicate as her feelings are. I propose, by
putting her at the head of my post-office department, to fully
repay myself for all she will receive. This will not interfere
with her studies or her needed recreation, but will come at
hours she can easily spare.
Hoping this will meet with your cordial approbation,
Truly yours,
A. S. ASHTON.
It was not until an answer to this had been received that Miss Ashton
sent for Marion to come and see her. Marion had in the mean time a
letter from her mother, asking if she wished to remain. To which
Marion had answered, "Yes! Yes!" So now all Miss Ashton had to do was
to tell Marion how satisfied she was both with her and the
arrangement, and Marion to tell her kind teacher of her delight in
remaining.
Gladys was to return with her father after a pleasant summer spent at
Rock Cove, and to her, Miss Ashton had much wise advice to give
regarding her future. A motherless child, an indulgent, though wise
father, no brothers or sisters, only a crowd of worshipping
dependents; probably not to another girl in the whole school was there
to come years which would test the character as hers was to be
tested.
Excellent advice was given; the question was, Would it be followed?
For Dorothy there was less doubt. Miss Ashton had already found a
school for her, where, excellently well-fitted, she could begin in the
fall her career as a teacher. Of her success, only Dorothy felt a
doubt.
Susan Downer, Miss Ashton had put off seeing until the last, hoping
the girl would come herself and confess, if there was anything to
confess; but as day after day went by, Susan shunning her when she
could, and when she could not, passing her with averted face, Miss
Ashton saw she must take the matter into her own hands and settle it
one way or other; to ignore was to condone it. It was, therefore, only
a few days before the close of the term when Susan, who had grown
almost buoyant in her hope of escape, found herself summoned to what
she was sure was to be her final trial.
"She can't expel me now," she said to herself triumphantly as she went
to the room, "and she can't withhold my diploma, for that is for
scholarship, and I stand well there, so I'm safe at any rate."
Still it was a trembling, pale girl that answered Miss Ashton's "Come
in."
"I do not want you to leave me uncertain both of your truth and
honesty," she said gently. "I have been waiting, hoping you would come
to me of yourself, but as you have not, I _demand_ now an answer to my
question. Did, or did you not write 'Storied West Rock'?"
"I d--i--d."
Before she had time to finish the answer, Miss Ashton had said
emphatically, "_not_; I know the truth, Susan! I want to spare you
the falsehood I see you are about to tell."
"I am not going to ask you where you found the story; I only want you
to see, and see so plainly that you can never forget it, how small and
mean a thing such a deceit, or any deceit, is, and how sure in the end
to turn to the injury of the one who commits it. Of all the class that
are to leave me, you, Susan Downer, carry away with you my greatest
anxiety for your future. God help and save you, you poor child!"
Miss Ashton's voice had tears in it as she ceased speaking, and those,
more than any words she had spoken, reached and moved the girl before
her.
"O Miss Ashton! Miss Ashton!" Susan cried, rushing to her, and
throwing both arms around her neck. "Do, _do_, _do_, please forgive
me? It was Marion Parke's book, and I thought no one would ever know.
I've been so sorry. I'd have given worlds, worlds, _worlds_, if I had
never seen it! O Miss Ashton, what shall I, shall I do?"
"Ask God to forgive you," Miss Ashton said solemnly. "It is another
and a greater judge than I that has the power to do so. If I were only
sure," but she did not finish her sentence, she only loosened Susan's
arms gently from around her neck, then said "good-by" to her, and
watched her once more as she went away down the corridor.
"And Marion Parke knew it all the time, but would not tell on Susan,"
she said to herself as she turned back into her room. "Marion is a
girl to be depended upon, I am glad she is to stay with me."
"Kate Underwood," she said, when Kate's time came for the farewell
counsel, taking both of the girl's hands in hers, "I'm proud of you.
You have done of late what many older and wiser persons have failed to
do,--learned the lesson, which I hope has been learned for your
lifetime, that there is no fun in things, however written or spoken,
that hurt other's feelings. I have seen you many times thoughtful and
tender, when your face was alive with the ridiculous thing you saw or
heard. Kate, I feel so much safer to let you go from me now than I
should have six, even three months ago. Tell me, will you try not to
forget?"
"I'll be good as long as I live. I'll never make fun, no, not even of
myself," burst out Kate, "though now I'm dying to get before a mirror
and see how I must have looked when you thought me so thoughtful. Was
it so, Miss Ashton?" and Kate made up a face which a sterner rebuker
than her teacher could not have seen without a smile.
"There's no use, Kate," she said; "go now, only don't forget."
And Kate made a sweeping courtesy and disappeared.
With Mamie Smythe she had a long talk, not one word of which did
either divulge. In that hour it would be safe to say Mamie learned
some life-lessons which it will be hard for her to forget.
And so the time passed on. Recitations ceased four days before
commencement, and the girls, those even who thought themselves over
busy before, found every hour brought a fresh claim upon their time.
"Our bee-hive," Miss Ashton called it, and the girls called her the
"queen bee," and made many secret plans about the various gifts they
were to give her the last night of the term. The ceremony this year
was to be a public one, therefore of great importance.