She began to haunt the library, particularly the shelves of American poetry; but there was nothing to be found that had special reference to Paul Revere, not one of “the hundred and more pieces.”
In this way she wasted a great deal of precious time, until, disappointed and discouraged, she was about asking for another subject, when she came upon a volume of collections of poetry written on the late war, and a sudden thought that this might be made to answer the same purpose unfortunately struck her. She had read this kind of poetry but little; but had enough literary taste to make her choose one of the very best, consequently most popular and well known, for her model. “Model,” she said to herself when, delighted, she found how easily she could use it with alterations.
No miser was ever made more happy by a bag of gold than she by this discovery. “Famous! famous! An honor to Montrose Academy!”
In the end, when her poem was ready for Miss Randall’s examination, she read it aloud to her room-mates, and their astonishment and delight over her success they were too generous to withhold.
Dorothy had worked very hard on her essay. It was carefully and well done; but Gladys’s, short, brilliant, straight to the point, without pause or repetition, was an effort of which an older, more accustomed writer need not have been ashamed. 240
But neither of these, they decided, could hold any comparison with Susan’s. It was Marion who, though she did not recognize the poem, could not forget “Storied West Rock,” that listened with a troubled face, and only added a few faint words to those of the others’ praise.
“She is an ugly, jealous old thing!” Susan made herself think, as she watched her narrowly; but then would come the thought, “I wonder if she suspects me?” remembering the story, and a cloud fell instantly over the bright sky of her hopes. But she was not to escape so easily; when she carried her poem to Miss Randall, she only glanced at the heading and down over the neatly written page, without reading a line, then said, “Come to me to-morrow afternoon at three, and we will read and correct it together. I hope you have made a success of it.”
Susan almost counted the hours until three came; then, proud and happy, she presented herself at Miss Randall’s door.
The teacher had the poem on a table before her, and by its side a book, the covers of which Susan recognized at once as being the volume from which she had stolen the poem.
“Sit down, Susan,” said Miss Randall gravely.