“You see, if I could be sure Miss Wallace wouldn’t ask us to read them in class, it wouldn’t be so bad. It’s bad enough, if Lucile really uses that foolish thing, to have Miss Wallace read it alone; but, really, ’twould be frightful if Miss Wallace should call on her to read it. I don’t know what I’d do! And every one would laugh! Oh, it is mean, Priscilla!”
“No, it isn’t mean, it’s just funny. You know things are different in school, Virginia, though I can never make mother see it. Now jokes aren’t mean! Lucile just bit, and she’ll learn in this way not to bite so easily. Also, that you get in trouble using other folks’ work. Besides, if she’s a sport, and takes it right, we’ll all like her better. It is mean to set traps deliberately to get other girls into trouble, the way Imogene did to you the other night; and it’s miserably mean to try to throw blame on some one else for what you’ve done yourself. Mother can’t seem to see much difference, but dad and the boys can. Only jokes aren’t mean; and we’d have been too slow for any use if we hadn’t had some fun out of that oration when the chance came like that.”
In study hour that evening, Lucile’s conscience was also active, with better reason. Dorothy, in her slippers, had stolen along the porch to Imogene’s room, a way she had of doing lately, though it was quite against the rules. But Lucile did not need Dorothy’s thoughts, for she was copying furiously from a piece of yellow paper, which she had taken from her handkerchief box. After all, she told her conscience, it was perfectly excusable, for the whole thing had been unfair. To expect her, whose great-grandfather had stormed the Bastille, to write an oration on the Pilgrim Fathers! Moreover, Virginia wasn’t going to use it herself, she reasoned, so it really wasn’t cheating; and she could help Virginia on her French some day to balance the account. Besides, Virginia would never know, because Miss Wallace never had them read in class; and, after all, it was not all Virginia’s work, because Lucile must add some thoughts of her own to eke out the required length. Lucile was not a prolific thinker, but with the help of the Dictionary and “The Essentials of American History,” she was progressing. By the time Dorothy returned, the oration was completed, though Lucile was strangely reticent concerning it. On her desk, Dorothy found a neatly written French exercise.
“Oh, Lucile, that’s awfully good of you,” she said, herself slightly conscience stricken.
“It’s all right. You helped me, you know.”
“Is the oration all done?”
“Yes. I—I wish I hadn’t eaten those three cakes. I think I’ll go to bed early.”
Sophomore English recited from nine to ten, Miss Wallace desiring minds as fresh as possible. The morning following Lucile’s desperate attempt and final accomplishment, a growing pile of manuscript on Miss Wallace’s desk proved that youthful orators had been busy. Lucile and Virginia, coming a few moments late to class, deposited their papers on the top of the pile and took their seats. The recitation began, and for half an hour Miss Wallace questioned, listened, and explained. Then she closed her book, and motioned the girls to do the same.
“I’m going to introduce a custom which I have never introduced before,” she said with the smile that had made her beloved during her three years at St. Helen’s. “We have twenty-five minutes remaining. I am going to ask that two or three of our orations be read before the class. Virginia, you are on the top of the pile, perhaps a penalty for being late. We will hear your oration.”
Virginia crossed the room, conflicting emotions sweeping over her. As to reading her own composition, she was quite willing, since Miss Wallace desired it; but she knew that Lucile’s was next in order, and, as she turned to face the others, she saw Lucile’s agonized face. Could she do anything to prevent her coming next? She hesitated. There was nothing except to hope that Miss Wallace would note Lucile’s fear, and excuse her. Miss Wallace noticed the hesitation.