Just as I emerged from the alleyway I caught sight of the small figure fluttering around the corner of a side staircase half way down the dimly lighted hall. I had to hurry in order to overtake her before she could reach her own room. She must have been sobbing to herself, for she did not notice the sound of my steps on the rubber matting till I was near enough to touch her elbow. Then how she jumped!
“Pardon me, Miss Kiewit. May I speak to you for one minute?”
She nodded. I am not observant generally but this time I could see that she said nothing because she dared not trust her voice to speak. She went in first to light the gas. The pillows on the couch were tossed about in disorder, and one of yellow silk had a round dent in it and two or three damp spots as if somebody had been crying with her face against it.
Now I hate to ask direct questions especially in a situation like this where I wished particularly to be tactful, and of course she would be thrust into an awkward position in case she should dislike to reply. So I sat down and looked around and said, “How prettily you have arranged your room!”
The freshman had seated herself on the edge of her straightest chair. At my speech she glanced about nervously. “My mother graduated here,” she explained, “and she knew what I ought to bring. Ever since I can remember, she has been planning about college for me.”
“What a fortunate girl you are!” This was my society manner, you understand, for I was truly embarrassed. I always incline to small talk when I have nothing to say. She caught me up instantly.
“Fortunate! Oh, me! Fortunate! When I hate it—I hate the college except for math. My mother teaches in the high school—she works day after day, spending her life and strength and health, so that I may stay here. I—I hate it. She wants me to become a writer. And I can’t, I can’t, I can’t! I want to elect mathematics.”
“Oh!” said I.
“When she was a girl, she longed to write, but circumstances prevented. Then I was born and she thought I would carry out her ambition and grow to be an author myself. She’s been trying years and years. But I can’t write. I’m not like my mother. I have my own life to live. I—I hate it so. And—and——” The child stopped, swallowed hard, then leaned toward me, her eyes begging me.
“And if you keep my story for the prize, she will hear about it, and she won’t let me elect mathematics for my sophomore year.”