s the happiest of all
chances. There was no indecision or delay in the establishment of their
relations; Rebecca's heart flew like an arrow to its mark, and her
mind, meeting its superior, settled at once into an abiding attitude of
respectful homage.

It was rumored that Miss Maxwell "wrote," which word, when uttered in a
certain tone, was understood to mean not that a person had command of
penmanship, Spencerian or otherwise, but that she had appeared in print.

"You'll like her; she writes," whispered Huldah to Rebecca the first
morning at prayers, where the faculty sat in an imposing row on the
front seats. "She writes; and I call her stuck up."

Nobody seemed possessed of exact information with which to satisfy the
hungry mind, but there was believed to be at least one person in
existence who had seen, with his own eyes, an essay by Miss Maxwell in
a magazine. This height of achievement made Rebecca somewhat shy of
her, but she looked her admiration; something that most of the class
could never do with the unsatisfactory organs of vision given them by
Mother Nature. Miss Maxwell's glance was always meeting a pair of eager
dark eyes; when she said anything particularly good, she looked for
approval to the corner of the second bench, where every shade of
feeling she wished to evoke was reflected on a certain sensitive young
face.

One day, when the first essay of the class was under discussion, she
asked each new pupil to bring her some composition written during the
year before, that she might judge the work, and know precisely with
what material she had to deal. Rebecca lingered after the others, and
approached the desk shyly.

"I haven't any compositions here, Miss Maxwell, but I can find one when
I go home on Friday. They are packed away in a box in the attic."

"Carefully tied with pink and blue ribbons?" asked Miss Maxwell, with a
whimsical smile.

"No," answered Rebecca, shaking her head decidedly; "I wanted to use
ribbons, because all the other girls did, and they looked so pretty,
but I used to tie my essays with twine strings on purpose; and the one
on solitude I fastened with an old shoelacing just to show it what I
thought of it!"

"Solitude!" laughed Miss Maxwell, raising her eyebrows. "Did you choose
your own subject?"

"No; Miss Dearborn thought we were not old enough to find good ones."

"What were some of the others?"

"Fireside Reveries, Grant as a Soldier, Reflections on the Life of P