A Daughter of the Morning

by Zona Gale

"That's good," he said, "though far from essential. Now what else?"

I thought for a moment. "I can keep still," I said. "I don't believe there's anything else I can do."

"That makes an admirable beginning," he observed gravely. "Do—do you take down all instructions? In notes?"

"I can, if you like," I said. "But I can never read my own notes."

"You don't do shorthand?" he cried.

For the first time, as I shook my head, it occurred to me that I might not meet his requirements.

"Well, now," he was saying, "that is good news. I was afraid you might come with a ruled note-book," he explained. "The flap kind."

"No," I said, "I begin at both ends of those. And then I never can find the notes."

"Precisely," he said. "Now about your head. Is it likely to ache every few minutes?"