Barbara, reaching for the envelope, stumbled over the prostrate form of David, who lay on his stomach on the floor, reading his well-worn copy of the “Greek Heroes.”
“Goodness, David, do get out of the way! There isn’t room to step in this house when you lie on the floor. And please don’t read aloud until I finish this letter.” She tore open the envelope, and her eyes eagerly ran over the words, as her mind hungrily took them up:—
MY DEAR MISS GRAFTON,—It gives us much pleasure to notify you that the Eastman Scholarship will fall into your hands this year. Miss Culver, who ranked slightly above you in the competitive examination, writes us that circumstances make it impossible for her to enjoy its advantages. You, as second in rank of scholarship, fall heir to her place and her honors.
We heartily congratulate you upon the attainment of what you so richly deserve, and beg that you will notify us of your acceptance this week. It is so late in the season now that an immediate decision is necessary.
Cordially yours, Eastman Scholarship Committee, E. C. BEDFORD, _Chairman_.
Jack, glancing up from the lounge, caught a glimpse of Barbara’s face, “What’s the matter? Is mother worse?” he demanded, sitting bolt upright on the sofa.
“No,—oh, no. It’s just a letter from college,” said Barbara. She got up from her chair suddenly, and made her way back to the kitchen.
“If you’re through with it, may I read aloud now?” called David; but his sister did not hear him. She stepped inside the pantry and sat down on a tin cracker-box to think it over.
The Eastman Scholarship! The highest honor which Vassar had to offer, and which carried with it a year of post-graduate study, had been the ambition of Barbara’s life. Nobody but herself could dream what that letter meant to her. Nobody but herself ever suspected how bitter the disappointment had been the spring before, when Miss Culver, who was less brilliant, but more of a student than Barbara, had taken the scholarship almost out of her hands. Every one in college had expected her to win it, and though she had been outwardly dubious about her prospects, she had been inwardly self-confident. It had taken courage to offer congratulations to Miss Culver, on that dreadful day when the decision had been announced. _Everybody_—that is, everybody but the faculty—knew that it belonged, by right, to her. She had made light of her defeat at home,—she had never dared think much about it, herself,—and nobody had suspected how deep a tragedy it was.