the lights lighted for their writing lesson. She was tired of it all,
with an utter and hopeless weariness. Tired of the bells, and the
whispering, and the shuffling feet, of the books that smelled of
pencil-dust and ink and little dusty fingers; tired of the
blackboards, cleaned in great irregular scallops by small and zealous
arms; of the clear-ticking big clock; of little girls who sulked, and
little girls who cried after hours in the hall because they had lost
their lunch baskets or their overshoes, and little girls who had colds
in their heads, and no handkerchiefs. Looking out into the gray day
and the rain, Margaret said to herself that she was sick of it all!

There were no little girls in the schoolroom now. They were for the
most part downstairs in the big playroom, discussing cold lunches,
and planning, presumably, the joys of the closely approaching
holidays. One or two windows had been partially opened to air the
room in their absence, and Margaret's only companion was another
teacher, Emily Porter, a cheerful little widow, whose plain rosy
face was in marked contrast to the younger woman's unusual beauty.

Mrs. Porter loved Margaret and admired her very much, but she herself
loved teaching. She had had a hard fight to secure this position a
few years ago; it meant comfort to her and her children, and it still
seemed to her a miracle of God's working, after her years of struggle
and worry. She could not understand why Margaret wanted anything
better; what better thing indeed could life hold! Sometimes, looking
admiringly at her associate's crown of tawny braids, at the dark eyes
and the exquisite lines of mouth and forehead, Mrs. Porter would find
herself sympathetic with the girl's vague discontent and longings, to
the extent of wishing that some larger social circle than that of
Weston might have a chance to appreciate Margaret Paget's beauty,