“Can it be possible,” thought Bridget, “that I really haven’t tried enough?”
Just then something cold and moist was thrust into her hand, and she started up bewildered, hardly able for the moment to make out where she was. It was almost dark in the barn now, but presently she made out the form of Toto the poodle, who had come to look for his mistress, and now stood with his eager affectionate eyes fixed on her from under his frizzled black hair.
Bridget stretched out her arms to him, and leaning forward, kissed his shaven nose; she felt wonderfully better, and looked up at the owl to thank it for its advice. It sat there blinking as though it had never spoken in its life.
“But you did, you know,” she said nodding at it, and she got up and ran out of the barn with Toto springing round her.
She thought a good deal afterwards of what the owl had said, and came to the conclusion that perhaps she had been a good deal in fault. At any rate she would “try again” and see how it answered. Bridget was a resolute little character, and she took the matter in hand at once; but I can best tell you how it “answered” by describing a scene which took place a month later, on the last dancing-day before the holidays.
The lesson was over, and the mistress was taking leave of her pupils; the usual visitors sat round the room looking on.
“And now,” she said, “before we part, I must say a few special words about one of my pupils, and that is, Miss Bridget Watson, whose marked improvement during the past month I have been pleased to notice. I have always felt that she had great difficulties to contend with, for when young people are growing fast, it is not easy to manage the limbs gracefully. I have to congratulate her upon her efforts, and to hope that you will all follow her example in trying to do your best.”
There was a murmur of satisfaction, for Bridget was a general favourite among her companions and they were all pleased to hear her praised. Every one was pleased; Miss Tasker, who was fond of Bridget, beamed behind her spectacles, and carried home the good news to Mrs Watson, whose pleasure put a finishing touch to Bridget’s exultation. Indeed, for some minutes she was more like a windmill than ever, through excess of joy, but it was holiday time, and even Miss Tasker said nothing.
You all know the story of the “Ugly Duckling,” and how, after all, it became a beautiful white swan. I cannot say whether, in like manner, Bridget grew up to be graceful and pretty, but one thing I am certain of, and that is, that she never regretted following the owl’s advice to “try again.”