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Grace Harlowe's Plebe Year at High School

<h3>THE SPONSOR OF THE FRESHMAN CLASS</h3> "Grace," asked Mrs. Harlowe, the day of the famous freshman tea, "have you asked some of the girls to help this afternoon? Bridget can attend to the sandwiches, but some one ought to pour the lemonade and generally look after the wants of the others." Grace was arranging a bowl of China asters on the piano in her mother's charming drawing room. The shining mahogany chairs and tables reflected the glow of the wood fire, for the day was chilly, and bright chintz curtains at the windows gave a cheerful note of color to the scene. "Oh, yes, mother," replied Grace. "Nora and Jessica, of course, and Anne Pierson." "And who is Anne Pierson?" "I don't know who she is," answered Grace. "I never knew her until she entered the High School. But she is terribly poor. Her mother is an invalid and her sister takes in plain sewing. I really asked her at first because Miriam Nesbit was rude to her one day. But I'm beginning to like her so much, now, that I'm glad I did it. She's as quiet as a little mouse, but she is fast taking first place in class. I believe she will outstrip Miriam before the end of the year. Don't ask me who she is, though. I haven't the least idea, but she's all right, I can promise you that. I'm sorry for her because she is poor. They live in a little broken-down cottage on River Street." Mrs. Harlowe looked dubious. Grace was always bringing home stray people and animals, and the mother was accustomed to her daughter's whims. The young girl was familiar to all the ragamuffins of the town slum, and when she sometimes found one gazing wistfully through the fence palings of her mother's old-fashioned garden, she promptly led him around to the kitchen, gave him a plate of food on the back steps, picked him a small bouquet and sent him off half-dazed with her gracious and impetuous kindness. "Well, my dear, I shall be prepared for anything," exclaimed Mrs. Harlowe; "but remember that feeding people on the back steps and asking them into the parlor to meet your friends and acquaintances are two different matters altogether." "Don't be afraid, mother," replied Grace. "You will like Anne as well as I do, once you get to know her. You must be careful not to frighten her at first. She is the most timid little soul I ever met." Just then the front gate clicked and two girls strolled up the red-brick walk, their light organdie dresses peeping out from the folds of their long capes. "Here come Nora and Jessica," cried Grace excitedly, running to the door to meet her friends. Mrs. Harlowe smiled. In spite of Grace's sixteen years she was still her little girl. There was another click at the gate and Mrs. Harlowe saw through the parlor window a little, dark figure, pathetically plain in its shabby coat and hat. "Poor little soul," thought the good woman. "How I wish I could put her into one of Grace's muslins, but, of course, I couldn't think of offering to do such a thing." "Mother," said Grace some minutes later, when the girls had laid aside their wraps and descended into the drawing room, "this is Anne Pierson, our new friend." Anne Pierson, small and shrinking, was dressed in a queer, old-fashioned black silk that had evidently been taken up and made short for the occasion. Mrs. Harlowe's heart was touched to the quick and she bent and kissed the young girl gently. "How do you do, my dear?" she said kindly. "I am always glad to meet Grace's friends, and you are most welcome." Anne was too frightened almost to speak. This was the first party she had ever attended, and the beautiful room, the girls in their light, pretty dresses, the bowls of flowers and the cheery firelight nearly stupefied her. Mrs. Harlowe disappeared into the little conservatory off the dining room, returning in a moment with two big red roses which she pinned to Anne's dress. "These red roses have been waiting for you all morning," she said, "and they're just in their prime now." More guests began to arrive, and soon the room was full of young girls talking gayly together in groups or walking about, their arms around each other's waists after the manner of fifteen and sixteen. Grace had seated Anne at the dining room table behind a large cut glass bowl which almost hid her small figure. Grace knew from experience that this would be the most popular spot in the room, and she cautioned many of her friends to be kind to the timid little stranger. She knew also that giving Anne something to keep her occupied would relieve her embarrassment. Anne conscientiously filled and refilled the glasses, and in the intervals answered the questions put to her; but never asked any herself. Miriam Nesbit came in late with her two most intimate friends. She wore a resplendent dress of old rose crepe and a big black hat. Anne forgot her resentment when she caught sight of the vision and was lost in admiration. But she was brought sharply to her senses by a rude, sneering laugh from the ill-bred girl, who was staring insolently at the old black silk gown. Anne flushed and hung her head. "I am glad Mrs. Harlowe gave me the flowers," she thought. "They hide it a little, I think." Meantime there was the bustle of a new and important arrival. Grace and her mother ushered in a charming little old lady and seated her in the place of honor, a big leather chair between the windows. She wore a gray silk dress and a lavender bonnet daintily trimmed in lace and white ostrich tips. "Girls," said Grace, as a hush fell over the room, "there is no need for me to introduce any of you to Mrs. Gray, who is the sponsor for the freshman class." There was a buzz of laughter and conversation again, and through the double doors Anne caught sight of the little old lady, talking gayly to her subjects, seated, like a diminutive queen, on a large throne. "Why is she the sponsor of the class?" Anne asked of Jessica, who was hovering near by. "Oh, have you never heard?" returned Jessica. "Mrs. Gray's daughter died during her freshman year at High School, long ago, and ever since then, Mrs. Gray has offered a prize of twenty-five dollars for the girl who makes the highest average in her examinations at the end of the freshman year. She was made sponsor of the freshman class about ten years ago, so each year, soon after school opens, some one of the freshmen gives a tea and invites her to meet the new girls. You must come in and be introduced, too, as soon as you are through here." "A prize of twenty-five dollars," repeated Anne. "How I wish I might win it!" "It's even more than that," said Jessica. "For a perfect examination she offers one hundred dollars. But, needless to say, no one has ever won the hundred. It is considered impossible to pass a perfect examination in every subject." "One hundred dollars!" exclaimed Anne. "Oh, if I only could!" "Well, you may win the twenty-five dollars, anyway, Anne," said Jessica. "I suppose the one hundred dollar prize is beyond the reach of human beings." "And now, young ladies," Mrs. Gray was saying, smiling at the group of girls who surrounded her, as she examined them through her lorgnette, "most of you I have known since you were little tots, and your fathers and mothers before you; but I don't know which of you excels in her studies. Is it you, Grace, my dear?" Grace shook her head vigorously. "No, indeed, Mrs. Gray," she replied. "I could never be accused of overstudy. I suppose I'm too fond of basketball." "It won't hurt you, my dear," said the old lady, tapping the girl indulgently with her lorgnette; "the open air is much better than that of the schoolroom, and so long as you keep up an average, I daresay you won't disappoint your mother. But none of you have told me yet who leads the freshman class in her studies." "Miriam Nesbit," said several voices in unison. "Ah!" said Mrs. Gray, looking intently at Miriam. "So you are the gold medal girl, Miriam? Dear me, what a young lady you are growing to be! But you must not study too hard. Don't overdo it." Mrs. Gray had gone through this same conversation every year since any of the girls could remember, and never failed to caution the head girl not to overstudy. "There's no fear of that, Mrs. Gray," replied Miriam boastfully. "My lessons give me very little trouble." "Mrs. Gray," broke in Nora O'Malley mischievously, "Miriam Nesbit has a close second in the class. The first girl who has ever been known to come up to her." Miriam flushed, half-angry and half-pleased at the adroit compliment. "And who may that be, my dear?" queried Mrs. Gray, searching about the room with her nearsighted blue eyes. "It's Anne Pierson" replied Nora. "Pierson, Pierson?" repeated the little old lady. "Why have I not met her? I do not seem to remember the name in Oakdale. But where is this wonderful young woman who is outstripping our brilliant Miriam? I feel a great curiosity to see her." "Anne Pierson, Anne Pierson!" called several voices, while Grace began to search through the rooms and hall. At the first mention of her name Anne had darted from her seat behind the lemonade bowl, and rushed to the nearest shelter, which was the conservatory. Grace found her, at last, in the conservatory crouched behind a palm. "Come here, you foolish child!" exclaimed Grace. "You are wanted at once. Why did you run and hide? Mrs. Gray—the great Mrs. Gray—wishes to meet you. Think of that!" Anne clasped the girl's strong hand with her two small ones. "Oh, Grace," she whispered, "won't you excuse me? I—I——" "You what? Silly, come right along!" Grace fairly dragged the trembling little figure into the drawing room, where a silence had fallen over the group of young girls who watched the scene. "Tut, tut, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray gently. "You mustn't be afraid of me. I'm the most harmless old woman in the world." Then she tried to get a glimpse of Anne's downcast, crimson face. "I wanted particularly to meet you, child," went on Mrs. Gray, "because I hear you are a formidable rival of the best pupil in the freshman class. That is a great boast for your friends to make for you, my dear. Miriam Nesbit is a famously smart girl, I'm told. But I wanted to meet you, too, because you bear the name I love best in the world." Here the old lady's voice became very soft, and the girls suddenly remembered that the young daughter had been called Anne. Was there not a memorial window, in the chapel of the High School, of an angel carrying a lily and underneath an inscription familiar to them all: "In Memory of Anne Gray, died in her freshman year, aged sixteen"? The girls moved off quietly, conversing in low voices, leaving Anne alone with her new friend. "You are a very little girl to be so clever," said Mrs. Gray, patting one of Anne's small wrists as she looked into the dark eyes. "Where do you live, dear?" "On River Street," replied Anne undergoing the scrutiny calmly, now she found herself alone. "River Street?" repeated Mrs. Gray, trying to recall whom she had ever known living in that strange quarter of the town. "Have you been long in Oakdale?" she went on. "A few years, ma'am," replied Anne. "And what is your father's business, my child?" continued the old lady remorselessly. Anne blushed and hung her head, and for a moment there was no reply to the question. Presently she drew a sharp breath as if it hurt her to make the confession. "My father does not live here," was what she said. "My mother is an invalid. My sister supports us with sewing. As soon as I finish in the High School, I shall teach." Mrs. Gray put an arm around the girl's waist and drew her down beside her. "I'm a stupid old woman, child. You must forgive me. Old people forget their manners sometimes. Will you come and see me very soon? Perhaps to-morrow after church you will take luncheon with me? I want to know you better." She drew a card from the beaded reticule that hung at her side. "Remember, at half-past twelve," she said, giving the girl's hand an extra squeeze as she rose to go. After Mrs. Gray had taken her departure a free and easy atmosphere was restored and the girls began talking and laughing without the restriction of an older person's presence. Mrs. Harlowe shortly after this also left them to themselves. "Let's do some stunts," proposed Grace. "Nora, will you give us your imitations?" "Certainly," replied Nora, "if Miriam will promise to sing, and Jessica will do her Greek dance, and Georgie will play for us." "All right!" came a chorus of voices. "We've done it oft before, but we'll do it o'er again if the company so wishes," said Georgie Pine, one of the brightest and gayest girls in the class. The others seated themselves in a semicircle, while each girl gave her little performance, and, at the conclusion, was applauded enthusiastically. Nora had a real talent for mimicry; she convulsed her audience with imitations of some of the High School teachers. When it came Miriam's turn she sat down at the piano with a queer look on her face. "I believe she means mischief," thought Grace to herself, as she watched the girl curiously. Miriam ran a brilliant scale up the piano, for music was another of her many accomplishments. Then she paused and turned to the others. "I won't sing," she said, "unless Miss Pierson promises to recite us something first, Poe's 'Raven,' for instance." Grace flushed angrily and was about to interfere when, to her surprise, Anne herself replied: "I shall be glad to if that is the poem you like best. I always preferred 'Annabel Lee.'" Miriam was too amazed to answer. She could never form an idea of what it cost Anne in self-control to acquiesce; but the young girl had gained a new strength that day. So many people had been kind to her, and what is more, interested in her welfare. She rose quietly and walked to the middle of the semicircle. Grace and her chums were in an agony of fear lest poor Anne should break down, and so distress them all except the unkind Miriam. However, they need not have troubled themselves. Anne fixed her eyes on the far wall of the dining room and commenced to recite "The Raven" in a clear, musical voice that deepened as she repeated the stanzas. The girls forgot the shabby little figure in its ill-fitting black silk and saw only Anne's small, white face and glowing eyes. Not Miss Tebbs, herself, teacher of English and elocution at the High School, could have improved upon the performance. "It was perfectly done," said Grace afterwards, telling the story to her mother. "It was almost uncanny and quite creepy toward the last." When the performance was over the girls crowded around little Anne with eager congratulations; but, strange to say, everyone forgot that Miriam had given her promise to sing. What the crestfallen Miriam kept wondering was: "Wherever did she learn to do it?" <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>CHAPTER III</h2> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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