"Oh, really!" the lady had replied, in a manner that showed that she
was bored.

Gwen had leaned over the baluster in the upper hall, and drank in every
word of praise that had been uttered.

The following Friday the pupils arrived with compositions that they
had prepared.

As is usual, in any such school event, some were really good, others
were neither very good, nor very bad, but all others were forgotten
when Gwen Harcourt commenced to read.

If Gwen Harcourt was vain, conceited, too much of a baby for a child
of her age, it was largely the fault of her silly mother, whose beauty,
and power to charm were great, but whose mind was exceedingly shallow.

She loved Gwen deeply, even too deeply to see any faults, and so in
her blind love, she of course, could never correct these defects that
she could not see, and that made the pretty child exceedingly
unattractive.

Her composition was a good example of what a silly child, with an even
sillier mother could do, in the way of original work, for surely the
essay was _original_.

Gwen pranced up onto the platform, made a graceful little bow, and
then, nodding to the class she said: "This really, truly happened!
E'hem!