“And—noth—ing—more?” sighed Nancy, hopelessly.
“Indeed! What more could you wish?” demanded Miss Prentice, tartly. “It seems to me you are a very fortunate girl indeed. Pinewood! There isn’t another girl in the class whose parents can afford to send her to such a fashionable preparatory institution.”
“I know, Miss Prentice. I ought to be grateful, I suppose,” admitted the girl, wearily. “But—but I did so hope Mr. Gordon would write something about me—about who I am—about what I am going to be in life——”
“I declare!” snapped the principal. “I call this downright ingratitude, Nancy Nelson. Suppose I wrote what you say to Mr. Gordon? And he should in turn transmit my report to—to the people who furnish the money for all this——”
“That’s just it! that’s just it, Miss Prentice!” wailed the girl, suddenly bursting into tears. “Who furnishes the money? Why do they furnish it? Oh, dear! what have I done that I am treated like a colt to be broken instead of like a girl?”
Miss Prentice was silenced for the moment. She looked down upon the girl’s bowed head, and upon the young shoulders heaving with sobs, and a strange expression flitted for the moment across her grim face.
Perhaps never before had the principal of Higbee School looked into Nancy’s heart and seen the real tragedy of her young life.