Well, after our “quarrel” he tried Virgil as a pacifier. Knowing that he was seeking to draw some sign of interest from me, and pleased and angered at the same time, still was I deaf to the charm. But, one day, in order to counteract its effect, I seized my algebra and, stimulated by the excitement of it all, dashed off a parody on Hamlet’s Soliloquy--on the study of algebra. It was rather clever (the girls thought it wonderful), and it helped to relieve my wounded feelings, for in it I spoke rather freely of the principal. Shortly after this, when things were running fairly smooth again, “Prof.”, who was helping me with my algebra lesson one day, taking up my book to show me some rule, chanced to see that parody written on the fly leaves. After reading a few lines he turned fairly white with rage. In low tones of concentrated anger he said, “I always knew it was pure mulishness in you; you could master your algebra as well as anything else, if you would; you spend your time writing things like this, instead of honestly studying. I have lost all patience with you--‘You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.’” Then followed another period of strained relations when, after days of obduracy on my part, he enlisted Coleridge to break the spell. It was in the literature class. Whether by accident or design, I don’t know, but he read the sonnet on “Severed Friendship” in which are the words: “Each spoke words of high disdain and insult to the other,” and also, “And to be wroth with one we love doth work like madness on the brain.” Reading this in class, as he always read poetry, beautifully, feelingly, while I sat bursting with this teapot-tempest which I was dignifying into a tragedy, he melted my stony heart. I barely escaped dissolving in tears; and when the class was dismissed, the skies were again clear. He had never again mentioned to me that wretched parody of the previous year till one day shortly before graduation: One of the lower-class girls had been using my algebra that term. We were grouped together during recess, talking over the approaching Commencement, when “Prof.” came up and asked where my algebra was. “Lizzie has it,” I said, curious as to why he asked. Thereupon he sat down at Lizzie’s desk and copied my wicked parody. I mildly protested, but half smiling, he continued copying, looking grave as he proceeded. Touched and flattered, the memory of my silly actions, and of his forbearance, and the thought that our school days were soon to end, made me repentant and remorseful. I would have given a good deal to have changed some of the lines in the old thing that I had thought so clever; and would have given much more to have told him how sorry I then was for my stubbornness; how grateful for his help; but I couldn’t. He never knew until years after (when I obeyed an impulse and wrote him), unless he then divined my contrition.