“Oh, I don’t want it!” she cried involuntarily, shrinking away from us, “I don’t want it.”
Jo’s mouth fell open. “Then why in the world——”
The little freshman fairly ran to the alleyway leading to her room.
Jo turned blankly to us. “Then why in the world did she write the story and send it in?”
Adele—I told you she was conscientious, didn’t I? and inclined to be mathematical herself—stared at the spot where Maria had disappeared. “Such an attitude might be explained either by the supposition that she is diffident—sort of stunned by the surprise, you understand—she never expected to win. Or maybe she is shy and dreads the notoriety of fame. Everybody will be looking at her, pointing her out. Or—or possibly——” Adele hesitated, glanced around uneasily, caught my eye; and we both dropped our lids quickly. It was horrid of us. I think it is the meanest thing to be suspicious and ready to believe evil of anybody. But truly we had just been reading a volume of college stories, and one was about a girl who plagiarized some poems and passed them off as her own. And this Maria Mitchell Kiewit had behaved almost exactly like her.
“Or possibly what?” demanded Jo.
Adele stammered. “Or p-p-possibly—oh, nothing! Maybe she is ashamed of the story or something like that. She lacks self-esteem probably. She didn’t expect it to be published, you know, and—and she is surprised. That’s all. She—I guess she’s surprised.”
“Come along, Adele,” I slipped my arm through hers and dragged her away from Jo’s neighborhood, “you must help me reject these fourteen others. That’s the part I hate worst about this editorial business.”
“Don’t you want to reconsider the decision?” called Jo, “since she doesn’t wish the prize herself, you’d better choose my girl. This is your last chance. The committee for the Annual will surely gobble number fifteen up quick. Berta Abbott knows good literature when she sees it. Going, going——”
“Let her go. Now, Adele,” I said, closing the sanctum door with inquisitive stubborn Jo safely on the outside, “here are the rest of the names. You doubtless know some of their owners by sight, and I hope I know others. This is how we shall manage. Whenever you see one of them securely away from her room—maybe in the library or recitation or out on the campus or down town or anywhere—you tell me or else run yourself and take her manuscript and poke it under her door. I’ll write a nice polite little regretful admiring note to go with each story, and that ought to take the edge off the blow. But be sure she is not at home. It would be simply awful to hand anybody a rejected article right to her real face and see how disappointed she is. I think it is more courteous to give her a chance to recover alone and unobserved.”