“Although only a small group of you are interested in the poetry contest,” she began, “I wish you all to hear the three poems that have been pronounced best by a most able judge, who is the Professor of English literature at Columbia.
“The first prize has been awarded to Marianne Carnot, the second to Muriel Storm, and the third to Joy Kiersey.”
There was a rustle among the girls, all of whom turned to look at the honored three.
Muriel and Joy were not surprised at the announcement that the winner had been Marianne Carnot, but they had not known that a second and third prize had been offered.
They made no whispered comment, however, as Miss Gordon was again speaking. “I am going to ask the three girls, beginning with Joy, then Muriel, and then Marianne, to come to the platform and read aloud the really excellent poems which they have submitted.”
Faith noticed that the eyes of this kind principal never left the dark, handsome face of the French girl, and she also noticed that Marianne did not look up even when her name was mentioned.
After all, Faith decided, the meeting had a deeper purpose than that for which it had been called.
Joy, with her flower-like face flushed, read the poem, which she really knew by heart, so sympathetically, and the plaint of the Indian maid so appealed to her listeners, that they wondered how the other two poems could be better.
Muriel’s poem, although showing more real talent, was not read as well, and the pupils were still inclined to believe that Joy’s should, at least, have had second place.
“Now, Marianne.”