“Why, Jessie!” exclaimed Kate, “you are not in earnest, are you? Only think what an explosion there would be, if we should tell her just what we think of her. Everybody dislikes that girl, and I don’t believe you think any better of her than the rest of us do. I don’t see why you should stand up for her so, all at once—she doesn’t deserve it.”
“I haven’t ‘stood up’ for her more than I would for any of you, under the same circumstances,” replied Jessie. “I only proposed that we talk something beside scandal. Now I’m going to have a run out-doors—but first I must speak to Lucy Grant—nobody has spoken to her to-day, hardly, and the poor child feels bad—I can see it in her looks.”
Lucy was the “squint-eyed girl” who had attracted Abby’s notice a few minutes before. She was afflicted with that defect of the eye commonly called squinting, but the proper name of which is strabism, or strabismus. In her case, the difficulty originated in a severe fit of sickness which she experienced when she was about five years old, and which was attended by a great deal of nervous irritation. There are muscles on each side of the eye-ball, by which it is moved from side to side. Squinting is caused by one of these muscles (usually the inner one) contracting, or growing short, while the one on the other side of the ball is lengthened in the same proportion. Sometimes the defect is very slight, but in the case of Lucy the deformity was quite prominent, and it began to cause her much mortification, for she was just entering upon her teens. Within a few months she had thought seriously of submitting to a surgical operation—for strabismus is sometimes removed by cutting through the contracted muscle of the eye-ball; but the uncertainty of the operation, and the dread of the pain, were too much for her weak courage to overcome.
Lucy belonged in Highburg, and was more or less known to most of the scholars. Though she did not hear Abby Leonard’s allusion to her, she saw enough to satisfy her what the purport of the remark was; and this, together with the little notice the other girls took of her, exaggerated by a somewhat suspicious disposition, had depressed her into a not very enviable frame of mind. A few kind words, however, will often dispel the blackest cloud; and it was Jessie’s privilege to wield this potent power in behalf of Lucy. Greeting her with the cordial air of an old friend, and forgetting the disparity in their ages, Jessie chatted freely with her about several matters of common interest, for a few minutes, and then added:—
“Come, Lucy, let’s go out and see what is going on. You mustn’t get into the habit of sitting here all the noon-time—Mr. Upton tells us we must always go out and take the fresh air.”
Lucy went out with Jessie, and, after mingling in the society and the sports of the other girls for an hour, returned to her seat at the ringing of the bell, with a very different opinion of her school-mates from that which she entertained an hour before.
The afternoon session passed off quite pleasantly. When the hour to close arrived, Mr. Upton gave out a hymn to be sung, as was his custom. Before giving the signal to commence singing, he remarked:—
“My young friends, I think we have made a very good beginning to-day. Everything has gone favorably with us, and I feel much indebted to you all for coöperating with me so willingly, in organizing the school. I augur from this day’s work a pleasant and prosperous term. We seem all to be in harmony, and I trust we shall continue so to the end. In referring to this text this morning,” continued the preceptor, pointing to the motto on the blackboard, “I made a somewhat strong appeal to your ambition. I endeavored to show that pecuniary and other advantages would be your reward, for faithfulness to your studies. If any of you suppose that this is the highest and noblest motive for study, our evening hymn will, I hope, correct the error.”
The scholars then united in singing the following beautiful hymn, by “holy George Herbert:”
“Teach me, my God and King,