“You are a friend of Florence Dunbar,” said Betsey, as we were crossing a field. “She has told me lots about you.”
“I fear that I'm not much of a success either as a subject or a predicate,” I said.
“She thinks you are a great hero, and there are others who think it, too.”
I blushed and stumbled a little in trying to say:
“Well--it--it isn't my fault. I've--I've done my best to--to keep her from making any mistake.”
“We've been hoping that you and she would make a match,” the little school teacher went on.
“It's--it's impossible,” I said, bitterly.
“Well, she--she feels so horribly grateful to me that--that if I asked her to be my wife, I--I suppose she would think it her duty to say yes.”
Betsey laughed, and we walked along in silence for half a minute. Then she stopped, and her glowing eyes looked into mine as she said, very soberly:
“Havelock, you're a strange boy. I don't want to spoil you, but I think--well, I won't say what I think.”
So I never knew what she thought, but I well remember there were tears in her eyes and mine as we walked in silence. She was the first to speak.
“If Florence said yes, it would be because she loves you,” said Betsey.
“But you do not know all that I know,” was my answer.
“I want to be decently modest, but I know some things that you do not,” she declared.
Then, as if she dared go no further in that direction, she timidly veered about.
“I believe you are acquainted with Socrates Potter?”
“Yes, and I like him. He can say such funny things.”
“Sometimes I fear that he hasn't a serious thought in his head.”
“Well, I should like to know what it is.”
She blushed and looked away, and I could see that she was in quite a flutter of excitement.
Oh, what a day was that, and--we were in its last moments!
We were nearing the village, and had begun to meet people, and, while we had a little distance to go, our serious talk went no further.
GRADUATION day had arrived, when Florence was to complete her course at the academy. The best women, as though by general agreement, had combined to right the wrong done her. No girl so noble and splendid had ever stood on the platform of the old academy. She was the valedictorian. Her gown was white, her voice music, while her form and face would have delighted a sculptor. That very day she assumed control of _The Little Corporal,_ and began her work, with Dan! Webster Smead as associate editor.