A Reversion To Type | Page 7

come to college to please a mother whose great regret was to have missed such training, nor did she remember when her incurious friend had learned her tense determination of flight; she could have sworn that she had never spoken of it. Sometimes, so perfectly did they appear to understand each other beneath an indifferent conversation, it seemed to her that the words must be the merest symbols, and that the girl who always caught her lightest shade of meaning knew to exactness her alternate hope and fear, the rudderless tossing toward and from her taunting harbor-light.
They sat by an open window, breathing in the moist air from the fresh, upturned earth. The gardeners were working over the sprouting beds; the sun came in warm and sweet.
"Three weeks ago it was almost cold at this time," said the girl. "In the springtime I give up going home, and love the place. But two years more--two years!"
"Do you really mind it so much?"
"I think what I mind the most is that I don't like it more," said the girl slowly. "Mamma wanted it so. She really loved study. I don't, but if I did--I should love it more than this. This would seem so childish. And if I just wanted a good time, why, then this would seem such a lot of trouble. All the good things here seem--seem remedies!"
The older woman laughed nervously. Three weeks--three weeks and no word!
"You will be making epigrams, my dear, if you don't take care," she said lightly. "But you're going to finish just the same? The girls like you, your work is good; you ought to stay."
The girl flashed a look of surprise at her. It was her only hint of sympathy.
"You advise me to?" she asked quietly.
"I think it would be a pity to disappoint your mother," with a light hand on her shoulder. "You are so young--four years is very, little. Of course you could do the work in half the time, but you admit that you are not an ardent student. If nobody came here but the girls that really needed to, we shouldn't have the reputation that we have. The girls to whom this place means the last word in learning and the last grace of social life are estimable young women, but not so pleasant to meet as you."
Three weeks--but he had waited seven years!
"I am very childish," said the girl. "Of course I will stay. And some of it I like very much. It's only that mamma doesn't understand. She overestimates it so. Somehow, the more complete it is, the more like everything else, the more you have to find fault with on all sides. I'd rather have come when mamma was a girl."
"I see. I have thought that, too."
Ah, fool, give up your senseless hope! You had your chance--you lost it. Fate cannot stop and wait while you grow wise.
"When that shadow covers the hill, I will give it up forever. Then I will write to Henry's wife and ask her to let me come and help take care of the children. She will like it, and I can get tutoring if I want it. I will make the children love me, and there will be a place where I shall be wanted and can help," she thought.
The shadow slipped lower. The fresh turf steeped in the last rays, the birds sang, the warming earth seemed to have touched the very core of spring. Her hopes had answered the eager years, but her miracle was too wonderful to be.
A light knock at the door, and a maid came toward her, tray in hand. She lifted the card carelessly--her heart dropped a moment and beat in hard, slow throbs. Her eyes filled with tears; her cheeks were hot and brilliant.
"I will be there in a moment." How deep her voice sounded!
The girl slipped by her.
"I was going anyway," she said softly. "Good-by! Don't touch your hair--it's just right."
She did not wait for an answer, but went out. As she passed by the little reception-room a tall, eager man made toward her with outstretched hands. Her voice trembled as she laughed.
"No, no--I'm not the one," she murmured, "but she--she's coming!"

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