“Oh, I don't know,” said Erica, tossing down her books in a way which showed her mother that she was troubled about something. “I suppose I tore along at a good rate, and there was no temptation to stay at the High School.”
“Come and tell me about it,” said the mother, gently, “what has gone wrong, little one?”
“Everything!” exclaimed Erica, vehemently. “Everything always does go wrong with us and always will, I suppose. I wish you had never sent me to school, mother; I wish I need never see the place again!”
“But till today you enjoyed it so much.”
“Yes, the classes and the being with Gertrude. But that will never be the same again. It's just this, mother, I'm never to speak to Gertrude again—to have noting more to do with her.”
“Who said so? And Why?”
“Why? Because I'm myself,” said Erica, with a bitter little laugh. “How I can help it, nobody seems to think. But Gertrude's father has come back from Africa, and was horrified to learn that we were friends, made her promise never to speak to me again, and made her write this note about it. Look!” and she took a crumpled envelope from her pocket.
The mother read the note in silence, and an expression of pain came over her face. Erica, who was very impetuous, snatched it away from her when she saw that look of sadness.
“Don't read the horrid thing!” she exclaimed, crushing it up in her hand. “There, we will burn it!” and she threw it into the fire with a vehemence which somehow relieved her.
“You shouldn't have done that,” said her mother. “Your father will be sure to want to see it.”