But to-day, what is this she is saying? Who is the beautiful youth she is telling about? Adonis? Beloved, did she say, and wounded? Wounded unto death, but loved and never forgotten, and from whose blood sprang the windswept petals of anemone——
Miss Beaton’s gaze comes back to her school-room and she takes up the book. The story is told.
Emily had not known that her eyes had filled—tears come so unlooked-for these days—until the ring on Miss Beaton’s hand glistened and the facets of its jewel broke into gleams.
She caught her breath, she sat up suddenly, for she knew—all at once she knew—it was Miss Beaton who had been the bride, and the ring was the sign.
She loved Miss Beaton with a sudden rapture, and henceforth gazed upon her with secret adoration. She made excuses to consult books in Miss Beaton’s room, that she might be near her; she dreamed, and the sweetness and the sadness of it centred about Miss Beaton.
She told Rosalie. “Why, of course, I guessed her right at first,” said Rosalie; but she said it jealously, for she, too, was secretly adoring Miss Beaton.
Emily had been trying to ask Margaret something, but each time the question stuck in her throat. Now she gathered courage.
It was spring, and the High School populace turned out at recess to promenade the yard. On the third round about the gravel, in the farthest corner where a lilac bush topping the fence from next door lent a sort of screen and privacy, Emily caught Margaret by the arm and held her back. After that there was no retreat; she had to speak.