“Well,” said Deborah, dejectedly, “it was the only bit of encouragement I ever got.”
“You don’t need encouraging, and perhaps one of these days, when you get properly discouraged, you’ll take to teaching seriously and give up writing, for you’re no good at anything else.”
Deborah got into bed.
The next day brought the news that she had not even obtained the second prize, it had been won by another girl.
“Never mind,” whispered an easy voice in her ear. “They put you out of the race altogether—it was wisest.”
“But you are quite sure I was the best?”
“Oh, perfectly.” And then there came that easy laugh which made Deborah almost laugh too, but not quite; the loss of the first place had been more to her than most people may imagine.
During the last year that Deborah was in college her second brother, who had for some years been a great anxiety, died suddenly of pneumonia after a three days’ illness. What debts he had contracted, and after all, considering his life, they were wonderfully few, were paid by the sisters.
About this time also they were able to pay back the money which had been wrongly taken by their father.