ore than kindly. And Miss Meadows tore it open.

"Pay no attention to letter, must have been mad, bought hat-stand
to-day--Basil," she read. She couldn't take her eyes off the telegram.

"I do hope it's nothing very serious," said Miss Wyatt, leaning forward.

"Oh, no, thank you, Miss Wyatt," blushed Miss Meadows. "It's nothing bad
at all. It's"--and she gave an apologetic little laugh--"it's from my
fiance saying that... saying that--" There was a pause. "I see," said
Miss Wyatt. And another pause. Then--"You've fifteen minutes more of
your class, Miss Meadows, haven't you?"

"Yes, Miss Wyatt." She got up. She half ran towards the door.

"Oh, just one minute, Miss Meadows," said Miss Wyatt. "I must say I
don't approve of my teachers having telegrams sent to them in school
hours, unless in case of very bad news, such as death," explained Miss
Wyatt, "or a very serious accident, or something to that effect. Good
news, Miss Meadows, will always keep, you know."

On the wings of hope, of love, of joy, Miss Meadows sped back to the
music hall, up the aisle, up the steps, over to the piano.

"Page thirty-two, Mary," she said, "page thirty-two," and, picking up
the yellow chrysanthemum, she held it to her lips to hide her smile.
Then she turned to the girls, rapped with her baton: "Page thirty-two,
girls. Page thirty-two."

"We come here To-day with Flowers o'erladen,
With Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot,
To-oo Congratulate...

"Stop! Stop!" cried Miss Meadows. "This is awful. This is dreadful." And
she beamed at her girls. "What's the matter with you all? Think, girls,
think of what you're singing. Use your imaginations. 'With Flowers
o'erladen. Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot.' And 'Congratulate.'"
Miss Meadows broke off. "Don't look so doleful, girls. It ought to sound
warm, joyful, eager. 'Congratulate.' Once more. Quickly. All together.
Now then!"

And this time Miss Meadows' voice sounded over all the other
voices--full, deep, glowing with expression.

12. THE STRANGER

It seemed to the little crowd on the wharf that she was never going
to move again. There she lay, immense, motionless on the grey crinkled
water, a loop of smoke above her, an immense flock of gulls screaming
and diving after the galley droppings at the stern. You could just see
little couples parading--little flies walking up and down the dish on
the grey crinkled tablecloth. Other flies clustered and swarm