“She is thinking of her dead mother now,” thought the girl. “Oh, if only that mother had been different we should not be placed in our present terrible position!”
It was the custom of the school for the girls on recitation afternoons to do their pieces in the great hall. Miss Henderson, Miss Lucy, and a few visitors generally came to listen to the recitations. Miss Thompson was the recitation mistress, and right well did she perform her task. If a girl had any dramatic power, if a girl had any talent for seeing behind the story and behind the dream of the poet, Miss Thompson was the one to bring that gift to the surface. Evelyn, who was a dramatist by nature, became like wax in her hands; the way in which she recited that afternoon brought a feeling of astonishment to those who listened to her.
“What remarkable little girl is that?” said a lady of the neighboring town to Miss Henderson.
“She is a Tasmanian and Squire Edward Wynford’s niece,” replied Miss Henderson; but it was evident that she was not to be drawn out on the subject, nor would she allow herself to express any approbation of Evelyn’s really remarkable powers.
Audrey’s piece, compared with Evelyn’s, was tame and wanting in spirit. It was well rendered, it is true, but the ring of passion was absent.
“Really,” said the same lady again, “I doubt whether recitations such as Miss Evelyn Wynford has given are good for the school; surely girls ought not to have their minds overexcited with such things!”
Miss Henderson was again silent.
The time passed by, and the close of the day arrived. Just as the girls were putting on their cloaks and hats preparatory to going home, and some were collecting round and praising Evelyn for her remarkable performance of the afternoon, Miss Henderson appeared on the scene. She touched the little girl on the arm.
“One moment,” she said.
“What do you want?” said Evelyn, backing.