“Freshmen—Anna Cane, Doris Sands.”
Everybody clapped except Marjorie. She sat perfectly still. The room seemed to go around and around; and she thought she was going to faint.
The girls all got up and pressed over to their friends to congratulate them. Somehow Marjorie realized that she should not sit any longer, and she stood up. But in a second Lily was by her side, her arm linked in hers.
“Come on out,” she said. “Don’t worry, Marj—surely there has been a mistake! Wait till you get your report.”
She literally led Marjorie to their room. When they reached it, and Lily had closed the door, the unhappy girl threw herself on her cot, weeping. Lily was unable to console her.
“It’s no use,” sobbed Marjorie. “I have failed in my Latin. I guess I tried too hard; I must have been nervous, and put down the wrong things.” She hid her face in the pillow.
In a few minutes, a knock sounded at the door, and Lily opened it, preparing to say that Marjorie had a headache, and to ask the guest to call again. But it was Miss Phillips.
“Come in,” said Lily quietly. Approaching her room-mate’s cot, she leaned over and said, “It’s Miss Phillips, Marjorie, to see you. Please excuse me,” she added discreetly, “I must go to the library.”
The next half-hour was one of those short but important times that always stood out in Marjorie’s memory. Miss Phillips sat down beside her, and taking her hand, told her it was not a mistake—that her Latin mark was so low that she had all but failed. And then she related an instance in her own life, when she had wanted so much to succeed in an undertaking—it was the passing of a physical training exam;—she had failed, and her money had given out; she had been forced to give up her plans and go to work in an office.
“But it was my Sunday-School teacher,” she said, “who made me hold on to my ideal, and succeed at last; and I guess I was better equipped in the end.”