One stormy day I was
the only scholar in my class, and when we had finished the Bible Lesson
Leaflets and I was watching the long rows of bobbing heads, flaxen and
dark, in the pews full of restless, wriggling children, I turned to the
teacher with a question that I had long been meditating.
"Miss Coleman," I began desperately, "ain't there any way to get pretty?"
"I wish there were a way and I knew it," she responded with a smile. "But
you should say 'isn't,' you know."
"Oh, but you are pretty," I cried, not with the intent of compliment, but
as merely stating a fact.
I do not now think that it was a fact. Miss Coleman's features were
irregular, her nose prominent, her forehead too high; but she had a fair,
pure complexion and fine eyes, and somehow reminded me of the calla lilly
that Ma was always fussing about in our sitting room.
And she was good and wise. I have often thought how different my life
might have been if her orbit had not briefly threaded mine. If I had asked
that question of some simpering girl a few years older than I--the average
Sunday school teacher--she would have replied, from under the flower-
burdened hat that had cost her so much thought, that all flesh was grass
and beauty vain; and I should have known that she didn't believe it.
Pages:
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79