“I shouldn’t like to guarantee that it would in all cases,” said Miss Raymond smilingly. “Has it taught you that?”
“Yes,” said Helen. “I don’t mean to be conceited, Miss Raymond, but I think it has.”
“And you find it, as I do, rather a deadly delight,” went on Miss Raymond, more to herself than to Helen. “And sometimes you wish you had never learned. When people tell you sad things, you wish you needn’t go over and over them, trying to better them, trying to reason out the whys and wherefores of them, trying to live yourself into the places of the people who have to endure them. And when they don’t tell you, you have to piece them out for yourself just the same.” Miss Raymond came sharply back to the present and held out her hand for Helen’s bundle of manuscript.
Helen gave it to her in puzzled silence, and watched her as she looked rapidly through it.
“Ruth Howard?” she questioned, when she reached the signature of the monologue. “Do I know her? Oh, a freshman, is she? She sounds very promising. Ellen Lacey—yes, I remember that story. Cora Wentworth—oh, I’m very glad you’ve got something of hers. She needs encouragement. Anne Carter—oh, Miss Adams, how did you know?”
“How did I know?” repeated Helen in bewilderment.
Miss Raymond looked at her keenly. “So you didn’t know,” she said. “It is a mere coincidence that you are going to print her verses.”
“I don’t know anything about her,” Helen explained. “I heard you read the verses in your theme class last week. And at the close of the hour I asked you to let me have them and several other things. I used these first because I had all the prose I needed for this time.”
“I see,” said Miss Raymond. “Have you told her yet that you want them?”
“No,” said Helen, guiltily. “I was going to write her a note as soon as I got home. I didn’t suppose she would care.”