She said to herself:
“Irene MacFarlane, I am ashamed of you. The idea of your being such a baby. I know you are missing lots of fun, about the best kind of fun. I know you do miss a lot of things, but stop whining and think of all the wonderful things that do come to you. Think of the joy of having such a friend as Mary Louise. Think of the good health you have in spite of your lameness. Think of all the books you can read. Think of the pupils you get in music. Think of the new Victrola Mary Louise’s Grandpa Jim gave you. Think of all the wonderful records you own and all you are to own in future. Think of the mockingbird singing now in the hedge. Think of Uncle Peter and Aunt Hannah and how they love you. Powder your nose this minute so they won’t know you have been making a baby of yourself!”
She produced from her work bag a tiny vanity case and carefully powdered her exceedingly well formed nose, looking critically at herself the while.
“You are not a bad looking person, Irene MacFarlane, but if you turn crybaby you’ll be hideous. Hold up your head and behave yourself if you have a spark of sense.” She laughed and held up her head and then in a low tone recited Henley’s Invictus.
“It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishment the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.”
She had begun in a whisper, but as the poem clutched her heart strings, as that particular poem always did, she spoke aloud. Her voice was singularly clear and musical. She had not noticed a car stopping at the entrance to Colonel Hathaway’s nor did she realize that two young men were walking towards her across the close cut grass.
Danny and Bob took off their hats and stood with heads bowed while the girl finished her impassioned recitation of that gallant hearted poem.