“No, Miss Gordon, unless,” and the hazel eyes were eager, “Uncle Lem is coming for that long-promised visit.”
“Not that,” the older woman smiled. “However, I have a letter from Doctor Winslow and in it he assures us both that just as soon as his duties will permit he shall avail himself of our invitation. The news has something to do with your school work.”
Muriel had taken her usual seat, a low rocker on the side of the fireplace opposite her teacher. Miss Gordon, looking at the truly beautiful face of the girl, and at the soft crown of hair that was like burnished copper in the glow of the firelight, felt more than ever convinced that Muriel had inherited much from that unknown father.
“Am I to be placed in one of the classes?” There was almost dread in the voice that asked the question.
Miss Gordon laughed. “Your expression, dear, is not complimentary to Miss Humphrey, but, truly, Muriel, she is wonderfully kind beneath her nervous, flustery manner, but it isn’t that. I am too selfish to give up teaching you. If you are satisfied with your present tutor, I assure you I am more than pleased with my pupil.”
Tears sprang to the hazel eyes. The girl leaned forward, her expressive face telling more than words could.
“I’ll study that hard and be as little trouble as I can if only you’ll keep me just this year out, Miss Gordon.” Then she inquired: “Now, may I know the news?”
“It is about the poetry contest that I was thinking when you came in. I have been looking over the poems that have entered and although several are good, I believe that your verses, ‘To a Lonely Pelican,’ are best; but, of course, as you know, dear, I am not to be the judge.”
“Who is, Miss Gordon?” Muriel asked.
“An old friend of mine who is Professor of English in Columbia University. The poems are to be sent him unsigned and he will decide which reveals the most talent.”