Now it happened, strangely enough, that the essay which in a small way had been a snare for Martine also caused some trouble for Priscilla. The beginning came on the Friday after the essays were handed in. In the early afternoon Priscilla had an errand to do for her aunt at the farther end of Commonwealth Avenue. There was no Symphony this week, and she enjoyed the change. As she walked homeward, she was in an unusually happy mood. It was one of those mild days in late January that seemed to be preparing the way for an early spring. The path under the trees in the middle of the park was rather wet from melting snow and ice, and after trying it for a few steps, Priscilla preferred the sidewalk. There she walked down between the rows of nurses with their baby carriages, or little children in charge. "A prize baby show" Martine had called it. Priscilla enjoyed the show and thought of her little brothers and sisters at home as she stopped at intervals to speak to some child she knew. From the Avenue she crossed the Garden and stood for a moment on the bridge to watch the ice breaking in the pond; and she continued her walk along the mall of the Common, until she was opposite Spruce Street. Turning into the narrower streets, when at last she reached her aunt's house, it seemed particularly gloomy, and she wished that she might have stayed out in the sun an hour longer. But she realized that the task before her could not be postponed. The weekly theme must be ready on Monday, and nothing could be accomplished unless she set herself at work. Filling her fountain pen carefully she sat down at a small table near the window and began her task.
Although Priscilla frowned slightly, as almost any girl will frown when writing a theme, the frown was not very deep. She expected no real difficulties at the present stage of her work, as she had already made a good draft in pencil, and it only remained now for her to copy it.
At first her pen fairly flew over the paper, but after a time, as it may happen even with more accomplished authors, she grew a little weary, and rising, she walked to the window. Then she took a few steps around the room, at the same time idly flourishing her pen. The habits of fountain pens are indeed hard to understand. There certainly seemed to be no reason why Priscilla's pen should have chosen the particular moment when she stood beside her bureau for a catastrophe. Priscilla herself was almost petrified with horror as she gazed at the great black spot on the immaculate bureau-scarf. How could one little drop of ink, falling carelessly from a pen held upside down, spread itself into such a big spot?