It certainly had been a hard and trying year. In the fall Miss Green’s tactlessness had required an extra amount of discretion on the part of Miss Wallace; in the winter the German Measles had broken into the regularity necessary for good work; and all through the year she had been required to watch, which occupation she found harder than any other—watch a girl, to whom she had never been able to come close, and whom she had failed to influence toward better things. She could not really blame herself for her failure in helping Imogene, but she felt sorry, because, knowing Imogene, she feared that life would never hold what it might for her. Altogether, it had been a hard year; and she would not have been human had she not at times looked tired, thoughtful, and even sad.
“You need a rest, my dear,” said the old Hillcrest doctor, meeting her one day in the village. “You’re quite tired out, working for those nice girls up there.” But that pile of themes did not look like immediate rest; and, sharpening her red pencil, she went to work again.
She left the school-room just as the warning-bell was ringing and crossed the campus to The Hermitage, longing for letters. On her desk she found a package and a telegram, which, when she had read it, made her tired face glow with happiness. “Dear Bob!” she said to herself. “He deserves it all. I’m so glad!”
“His picture has come back, too,” she added, untying the package, “just in time for the good news. You dear old fellow! You deserve a silver frame, and the nicest girl in the world.”
There came a knock at her door just then, and the maid passed her a long box from the florist’s. Surprised, she opened it to find dozens of yellow daffodils, and a card, which said in carefully disguised handwriting, “With deepest love, and tenderest sympathy.”
“Why, what can it mean?” she thought mystified. “I always need the love, but I certainly don’t need sympathy. I never was so happy in my life!”
The supper-bell rang just then, and put a stop to her wonderings. She dressed hurriedly, placed some daffodils at her waist, and descended to the dining-room, a trifle late, but wholly radiant.
“She surely doesn’t look sad to-night,” mused more than one at the table. “Could the flowers have made her happier so soon, or what is it?”
Half an hour before study hour, Miss Wallace called Virginia to her room.
“I know you love daffodils, Virginia,” she said, “and I want you to see this gorgeous quantity which some mysterious person has sent me. And the strangest part about it is that they come with ‘tenderest sympathy.’ It’s especially funny to-night, because I’m so happy. I think I really must tell you about it.”