  Miss Gordon looked up from her desk, at which she was writing when, at her request, the door of the office opened. “Oh, good afternoon, Faith, dear,” she said when she saw the little brown maid who stood there, for nut-brown the girl surely was, hair, eyes and skin being dark. “Can you spare a moment?” Faith asked, not wishing to interrupt, for she knew that her mission could be postponed. “As many as you wish. Come in and sit down. I know by your eager expression that you have something to ask or to tell. What is it, dear?” “It’s about Muriel Storm, Miss Gordon, that I wish to speak. I have been with her for the last two hours.” The principal looked her pleasure. “Oh, Faith,” she said, “I’m so glad if you are taking an interest in poor, heart-broken Muriel. There is wonderful material in that girl and you are the one pupil in the whole school whom I had thought of asking to befriend her, but I decided to wait and see if there were any who would be kind to her without my having asked it as a favor.” “I, too, think that Muriel is very unusual,” the girl declared warmly. “When I visited her room today I felt at once that yearning one would feel for any helpless thing that was hurt, but soon I became interested in her for herself alone. I never before saw a face that registers emotion more wonderfully, as Miss Burns calls it in our drama class.” “You are right,” Miss Gordon replied. “I soon found that Muriel loved nature passionately, and what do you suppose we have been doing during the evening hour that we have spent together this week? Reading and listening to the great nature poems! And, dear, one night when the girl came to me she said, almost shyly: ‘Miss Gordon, I heard a little verse today when I was out with my pine,’ and then she told it. Although crudely worded, that little poem promises much. It described the surf beating on the rocks of her Windy Island home and of a lame pelican which is unable to compete with the more active birds in its struggle for existence, and depends largely on Muriel for its sustenance. She had been thinking of this bird friend, it seemed, and of the nature poems that I had read when this little verse came to her thought.” “Miss Gordon, do you think that this untaught island girl is really a poet at heart?” “I think just that. But, dear, Muriel is not untaught. True it is that she cannot speak our language. She knows nothing of science or numbers, but she has been taught high ideals by one of nature’s noblemen, her grandfather. Too, she has been taught the folk-lore of Ireland by another whom she calls Captain Barney, and nature, the winds, sky, storm, birds and sea have taught her much else. There are few girls at High Cliffs who are as well grounded in things worth while as is our Muriel Storm. Now, dear, what is it you wish to say?” Faith hesitated, then said: “I was thinking that it might be pleasant for Muriel to sit in the dining hall with us.” Then she added, flushing: “Of course, Miss Gordon, it is pleasant for her to be with you, but——” The older woman placed a hand upon Faith’s as she said: “Dear, I understand, and also I have been waiting for this to happen. I wanted to place her where she would be happy and not unkindly treated. What is your suggestion?” “I was wondering if Phyllis Dexter, who sits between Gladys Goodsell and me, could not be placed at the long table with her friend Adelaine Stuart. Every day she wishes that she were there, and then Muriel could sit next to me. Gladys will be very kind to her.” There was a glad light in the eyes of the principal. She touched a button twice in rapid succession and the head waitress soon appeared. The change was ordered and then when the maid had departed Miss Gordon arose. “Dear,” she said, “in fifteen minutes the supper bell will ring. Will you take Muriel with you to the dining hall?” “Oh, thank you, Miss Gordon! I am so glad that I have had this talk with you.” * * * * * * * * Muriel was just waking from her siesta on the window seat, feeling wonderfully refreshed, when she heard the bell which meant that she had but fifteen minutes in which to prepare for the evening meal. Again there came a tap on her door and this time Muriel called eagerly, “Come in.” She was sure that it would be Faith, and impulsively she whirled about, saying: “Will you be forgivin’ me for fallin’ asleep when you was readin’ to me?” Faith caught the outstretched hands as she replied: “Yes, Muriel, if you will grant me a great privilege.” The island girl did not know that word, and, as usual, her face registered her perplexity. Faith laughed. Then, more seriously: “Dear, I would not hurt your feelings for worlds, but I was wondering if you would like me to help you to speak as we do?” She looked anxiously into the clear hazel eyes and to her joy she saw a glad light dawning there. “Oh, I’d be thankful if you’d care that much.” “Very well, we’ll begin on the sentence you said a moment ago.” Muriel slowly repeated it correctly after Faith. Then she exclaimed happily: “There’s a rift in the clouds for me an’ the sun’s a-gleamin’ through.” There were sudden tears, but also a shining smile as she added: “’Twill be a long while before I can get the speakin’ right, but I’ll try.” The last bell for supper was pealing through the corridors and Faith, catching the hand of Muriel, hurried her away. There were groups of girls in twos and threes going down the circling stairway, and although many of them greeted Faith, none even smiled at her companion, but there were three who swept past with their heads held high. These snobbish girls were Marianne Carnot, Adelaine Stuart and Phyllis Dexter. But a second later skipping feet were heard back of them and plump, good-natured Gladys Goodsell caught Faith by the arm. “Belovedest friend,” she said, after nodding at Muriel, “where hast thou been this afternoon? Didst forget that we were to play tennis at four?” Faith turned, truly contrite. “I’ll have to confess that I did forget, Gladys. I am so sorry. Are you very hurt with me?” A jolly laugh rang out at this reply. “Getting angry would take more energy than I have to expend.” Then, more seriously: “I know my friend Faith too well to think that she would neglect an engagement if she recalled it, and, as it happened, Catherine Lambert was pining to have someone play singles, and so I made her happy.” They had reached the large, pleasant dining hall and saw many girls who were already there standing behind their chairs. Purposely, Faith delayed her companion near a window overlooking the garden of asters. The island girl’s eyes were aglow as she looked out. “It’s pretty they are,” she said; “the like of ’em I’ve not seen. We had the wild ones but no planted flowers.” Gladys, who did not in the least understand what was happening, glanced over at Faith, who, in a moment when she could not be observed by Muriel, placed her finger on her lips and nodded, as much as to say, “Do as I do and I’ll explain later.” Gladys had chummed with Faith and Helen Beavers during the three years they had been at High Cliffs and understood the sign language of her friend almost as well as she did the spoken word. So she knew that something unexpected was about to happen, and that she was to take her cue from Faith. Although Muriel occupied the seat formerly that of Phyllis Dexter, the change had not pleased that proud girl, who had so wished to be placed next to her particular friend, Adelaine Stuart. Instead she found herself placed between two seniors in whom she was not remotely interested. The truth of the matter was that Miss Gordon had long been observing the three girls, Marianne, Phyllis and Adelaine, and thought it wise to keep them apart whenever it was possible. When Muriel, looking almost happy for the first time since her arrival at High Cliffs, was seated, she felt a compelling gaze and glanced across the room. There she saw Marianne watching her through half-closed lids. There seemed to be in the French girl’s expression a threat that endangered her new-found joy and peace. But Faith, who also had seen, reached under the table and, finding Muriel’s hand, she held it in a close, protecting clasp, and the island girl knew that come what might she would not have to stand alone. Saturday dawned gloriously bright, for it was Indian summer on the Hudson. The air was soft and balmy, the sunshine hazy and a dreamy little breeze rustled the few yellowing leaves that were still clinging to the trees. “Just the day for a hike,” Faith announced at breakfast. Catherine Lambert, who sat across the table, looked up eagerly and in answer to the speaker’s question, “Who wants to go?” she at once replied, “I do.” “Muriel is to be the guest of honor.” Faith smiled lovingly at the girl next to her. “Gladys, how about you?” “I thought we were to practice for the tennis tournament today. There is only a month left, you know.” “That’s right. So we were. But, Gladys, if you will go hiking with us today I’ll promise to practice tennis every afternoon next week from four to five, my free time, on one condition.” Her friend looked at her inquiringly. “Name it,” she said. “That fifteen minutes each day may be devoted to teaching Muriel our favorite game.” “Agreed. Who knows but that she may be just the champion player for whom we are looking,” Gladys good naturedly declared with sincere fervor. And Catherine chimed in with: “Oh, wouldn’t it be great if we could make a player out of Muriel? We haven’t anyone on our side as light on her feet or as quick as Marianne Carnot. Just because of that I’ve actually been afraid that we might lose out on the great day.” Then, to the wide-eyed listener, Faith explained: “On Thanksgiving every year we have a tennis tournament. Marianne and her friends are the opponents of Gladys and her chums. Of course, naturally we are eager to win. Now, Muriel, if you are willing, we will train you. Not that we expect you really to bring victory to our side; that would be asking too much, since Marianne Carnot was the champion tennis player in the English boarding school that she attended before she came to America. She has three medals to prove her frequently made boast, and, moreover, we have seen her play.” Then, as the surveillant of the dining hall gave the signal, the pupils rose and left. In the lower corridor, near the office of the principal, Faith paused. “Wait a minute,” she said softly. “I am going to ask Miss Gordon if we may take our lunch. I do not have to return to the school until three o’clock, just in time for my violin lesson.” The permission was readily granted and then the four girls went to their rooms to dress for the hike. Muriel was happier than she had supposed she would be ever again, and she actually smiled at her reflection as she donned her sport skirt, sweater and tam. When she was dressed, Muriel stood gazing idly from her window. |
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