"Things are not getting any better, but rather worse. I cannot seem to win them. Of course I understood that my task would be difficult, following, as I did, two such popular teachers. I think, perhaps, that this very fact has made me nervous; and so—I have not appeared even at my best. But, oh, I have tried!—you cannot know how I have tried!
"I am nearly sick with terror for fear I shall lose my position—and of course that doesn't help me to be the cool, calm, judicious person in the chair I ought to be. But it means so much to me—this place—and if I should lose it, there would be poor Annie deprived of her comforts again; for, of course, a failure here would mean that not for a long time (if ever!) could I get another like it.
"Forgive me for burdening you with all this, but it had got to the point where I must speak to some one. Then, too, I did not know but you could perhaps tell me why I have failed—I have tried so hard myself to understand!
"Sometimes I think I'm too lenient. Sometimes I think I'm too strict. Sometimes I'm so worried for fear they'll think me too young and inexperienced, that I don't dare to act myself at all—then I'm stiffly dignified in a way that I know must be horrid.
"After all, I think the whole secret of the matter is—that I'm afraid. If once I could have a confident assurance that I am doing well, and that I am winning out—I think I should win out. I do, truly!
"And now I must stop and go to work. I'm in the grove, back of the schoolhouse. I often bring my papers here to correct. I have them with me to-night; but—I've been writing to you instead of working. I'll finish this later. But, really, already I feel a little better. It's done me good, just to say things to you. Of course, to no one else could I—"
There was a little more, but Genevieve stopped here. Not until she read that last sentence did she realize in the least what she was doing. Then, hurriedly, with flushed cheeks and shamed eyes, she thrust the letter out of sight under the papers. But there was something besides shame in her eyes; there was a very real, and a very tender sympathy for—folks.
"And to think that I—read it," she breathed. Then, suddenly, she snatched up the papers again. "But she mustn't know—she mustn't know," choked the girl. "Maybe, if I run, I can get there in time and tuck it into her desk. I must get there in time," she declared aloud, darting out of the house and up the street without once looking back toward an amazed Miss Jane, watching her from the window.
As Genevieve hoped would be the case, the janitor had not finished his nightly duties. The great front door stood wide open, and Genevieve made short work of reaching her own room. As she opened that door, however, she paused in dismay.
Miss Hart was in her chair. Her arms lay folded on the desk before her, and her face was hidden in them.