A Girl of the Limberlost | Page 7

only the work of two
women to meet all of it. She was insane to think she could come to the
city to school. Her mother had been right. The girl decided that if only
she lived to reach home, she would stay there and lead any sort of life
to avoid more of this torture. Bad as what she wished to escape had
been, it was nothing like this. She never could live down the movement
that went through the class when she inadvertently revealed the fact
that she had expected books to be furnished. Her mother would not
secure them; that settled the question.
But the end of misery is never in a hurry to come; before the day was
over the superintendent entered the room and explained that pupils
from the country were charged a tuition of twenty dollars a year. That
really was the end. Previously Elnora had canvassed a dozen methods
for securing the money for books, ranging all the way from offering to
wash the superintendent's dishes to breaking into the bank. This
additional expense made her plans so wildly impossible, there was
nothing to do but hold up her head until she was from sight.

Down the long corridor alone among hundreds, down the long street
alone among thousands, out into the country she came at last. Across
the fence and field, along the old trail once trodden by a boy's bitter
agony, now stumbled a white-faced girl, sick at heart. She sat on a log
and began to sob in spite of her efforts at self-control. At first it
wasphysical breakdown, later, thought came crowding.
Oh the shame, the mortification! Why had she not known of the tuition?
How did she happen to think that in the city books were furnished?
Perhaps it was because she had read they were in several states. But
why did she not know? Why did not her mother go with her? Other
mothers-- but when had her mother ever been or done anything at all
like other mothers? Because she never had been it was useless to blame
her now. Elnora realized she should have gone to town the week before,
called on some one and learned all these things herself. She should
have remembered how her clothing would look, before she wore it in
public places. Now she knew, and her dreams were over. She must go
home to feed chickens, calves, and pigs, wear calico and coarse shoes,
and with averted head, pass a library all her life. She sobbed again.
"For pity's sake, honey, what's the matter?" asked the voice of the
nearest neighbour, Wesley Sinton, as he seated himself beside Elnora.
"There, there," he continued, smearing tears all over her face in an
effort to dry them. "Was it as bad as that, now? Maggie has been just
wild over you all day. She's got nervouser every minute. She said we
were foolish to let you go. She said your clothes were not right, you
ought not to carry that tin pail, and that they would laugh at you. By
gum, I see they did!"
"Oh, Uncle Wesley," sobbed the girl, "why didn't she tell me? "
"Well, you see, Elnora, she didn't like to. You got such a way of
holding up your head, and going through with things. She thought some
way that you'd make it, till you got started, and then she begun to see a
hundred things we should have done. I reckon you hadn't reached that
building before she remembered that your skirt should have been
pleated instead of gathered, your shoes been low, and lighter for hot
September weather, and a new hat. Were your clothes right, Elnora?"

The girl broke into hysterical laughter. "Right!" she cried. "Right!
Uncle Wesley, you should have seen me among them! I was a picture!
They'll never forget me. No, they won't get the chance, for they'll see
me again to-morrow!
"Now that is what I call spunk, Elnora! Downright grit," said Wesley
Sinton. "Don't you let them laugh you out. You've helped Margaret and
me for years at harvest and busy times, what you've earned must
amount to quite a sum. You can get yourself a good many clothes with
it."
"Don't mention clothes, Uncle Wesley," sobbed Elnora, "I don't care
now how I look. If I don't go back all of them will know it's because I
am so poor I can't buy my books."
"Oh, I don't know as you are so dratted poor," said Sinton meditatively.
"There are three hundred acres of good land, with fine timber as ever
grew on it."
"It takes all we can earn to pay the tax, and mother wouldn't cut a tree
for her life."
"Well then, maybe, I'll be compelled to