There were grammatical questions, phrases to be explained, and short sentences to be translated into French. These she understood fairly, but the paragraph that filled her with dismay was a short French poem of three verses to be put into English prose. She read it again and again, but, from the idioms and inversions it contained, totally failed to comprehend its meaning. Indeed, she could see from the significant glances which—talking being forbidden—were exchanged between the girls, that she was not the only one who failed to appreciate the beauty, or even the sense of the poem.
"It's of no use," she sighed; "I must leave it and answer some questions. If I have time afterwards, I may, perhaps, do one verse."
For a whole hour there was not a sound to be heard but the scratching of busy pens and the rustling of papers or the tapping of idle fingers, waiting to put down the thoughts that would not come.
Julia was writing very fast. She was more proficient in French than in any other study. She liked it, and easily caught the sounds, and was very proud of the fact that she had once spent a few days in Paris with her mother. She had also profited by her friendship with a French girl, one of Miss Elgin's boarders, who had come to the place quite unable to speak English. Julia had taken a fancy to mademoiselle, and in conversation with her picked up several unusual phrases, and became familiar with many of the idioms, though her knowledge of the grammar was still very meagre.
The poem which perplexed the other girls was less difficult to her than the grammatical questions, and she wrote away busily translating it. She was seated at a desk just in front of Ruth, who looked up after writing her answers, wondering what she could do about the poem. The time allowed for the paper was drawing to a close. Julia had finished her translation, and was holding it in her hand, reading it over to see if it required any correction. Her writing was large, firm, and clear, and as she held up the paper Ruth's eye fell upon it, and, almost unconsciously, she read the whole of her cousin's translation.
The meaning of the poem was no longer a mystery to her. She understood it now, and could easily translate it.
Without stopping to think if it were right or wrong, she seized her pen and wrote the words as they came to her mind. Naturally enough they were almost identical with those she had read on her cousin's paper. But she did not stop to think, and had scarcely finished the last word when the clock struck, and the papers were immediately collected, Ruth's not having been even read over.
"How many questions did you answer?" "What have you done?" "How did you get on with that dreadful translation?" asked the girls of each other when school hours were over and their tongues were once more unloosed.
"I suppose that you have done it, Julia, you are so clever at French," said Ethel.
"It really wasn't difficult," replied Julia carelessly. "What have you done, Ruth?"