Virginia, being a new-comer, resolved to like her; and to that end she really strove, being the one girl in The Hermitage and often the only one in school, who defended the teacher, whose strict adherence to her own interpretation of duty brought with it sad mishaps, often for the girls and sometimes for herself. Even Mary, who was Miss Green’s helper, though she did not say much at the indignation meetings of the other girls, quite clearly did not like Miss Green.
“I think it’s sweet of you, Virginia, to stand up for her,” Priscilla announced one evening, as they wrestled with extra hard Latin lessons, “but your time hasn’t come yet. I hope you’ll always be able to like Greenie, but I have my doubts.”
“Well, I’m going to try hard, anyway. Of course, I shan’t love her—I don’t hope for that—but she seems so left out with us all loving Miss Wallace so much, that I’m going to try.”
“That’s just what I thought when I came last year,” observed the experienced Priscilla. “But after she just the same as accused me of borrowing the down-stairs ink-bottle and never returning it, I couldn’t like her any longer.”
Whether Miss Green liked the gray-eyed Western girl, who was trying so hard in the face of so many odds to like her was not as yet known. Perhaps she was slowly deciding whether or not Virginia might be trusted; and very soon events were to come to pass requiring that decision to be made.
The two halcyon weeks of October passed, and the shortened days began to grow colder. Already there was a touch of November in the air; and the girls were beginning to prefer to spend the half hour after supper around the open fire than out-of-doors. On Friday evening of the third week of school, there being a shorter study period of from eight to nine o’clock, they stayed later than usual, talking of various subjects as they sat on the floor around the open fire. Among other things they spoke of their “vocations” in life—each painting in glowing colors the ideal of her life-work. Mary was going to teach, and she already had her pattern, she said shyly, not venturing to look toward Miss Wallace out of courtesy to poor Miss Green, who sat opposite. Anne, who loved nothing so well as “doctoring” the girls when they would permit, would be a Red Cross nurse, bearing cheer and consolation wherever she went, like Mrs. Browning’s “Court Lady,” though she should wear a uniform instead of satin. Dorothy would go on the stage and charm young and old, like Maude Adams, her idol, and never take part in any but up-lifting plays. Lucile longed to have a villa outside of Paris, and help poor American students, who had come to Paris to study art and had been unfortunate and unsuccessful. She had seen so many, she said. They were so pathetic; and she would give them encouragement and a fresh start. Priscilla said with a little embarrassment, that since every one was telling the truth, she must admit that she dreamed of being an author, and writing books that should inspire the world; and Virginia, who sat by her, all at once squeezed her hand tightly, and said that she longed to write also. Imogene “hadn’t decided,” and Vivian made them all laugh by saying she wanted more than anything else to have a home for orphan babies and take care of them every one herself.
Miss Wallace and Miss Green listened, the one with sympathetic, the other with amused interest. Neither of them spoke until the girls had finished; and then Miss Green, feeling that perhaps it was her duty to declare that dreams were fleeting, said,
“You must be careful, my dears, that unlike Ibsen’s ‘Master Builder,’ you can climb as high as you build. Dreams are very well, but I have lived long enough to discover that one’s vocation in life is usually thrust upon her.”
“Horrors!” cried Dorothy. “Then I won’t have any!”
The others were silent, all conscious of a dampening of enthusiasm. Miss Wallace stirred a little uneasily in her chair. Virginia, being honestly interested in Miss Green’s observation, and feeling intuitively that some one should speak, broke the silence.