She had been proud of her essay, had worked at it sincerely, knew its periods by heart. But her pleasure in it was destroyed, as completely, she realised, as she had destroyed that of little Louise. More--for Louise had found a champion. That, she recognised jealously. Unjust! Her essay was no worse, read soberly--yet she was forced to render it ridiculous. She read a couple of pages in hurried jerks, stumbling over the illegibilities of her own handwriting, baulked by Clare's interpolations. She heard her own voice, high-pitched and out of control, perverting her meaning, felt the laden sentences breaking up into chaos on her lips. In her flurry she pronounced familiar words amiss, Clare's calm voice carefully correcting. Once she heard a chuckle. Two pages ... three ... only that ... she remembered that she had boasted of twenty ... seventeen to be read yet and they were all laughing. To have to stand there ... three pages.... "_But as Childe Roland turned round_----" "Louder, please," said Clare. "_But as Childe Roland turned round_----" and even Marion was laughing.... "_Turned round to look once more back to the high road_----" "And slower." "_To the high road_----" She stopped suddenly, a lump in her throat. "Go on, Agatha." "_To the high road_----" The letters danced up and down mistily. "_To the high road where the cripple--where the cripple_----Oh, Miss Hartill," she cried imploringly, "isn't it enough?" It was surrender. Clare nodded. "Yes, you may sit down now. Your essay, please: thank you. And now I'll read you, once more, what Louise has to say on the same subject. I dare say you'll find, Agatha, that you were almost as unfair to her essay, as you were to--your own." And she smiled her sudden dazzling smile. Agatha, against her will, smiled tremulously back. Clare, with a glance at the little figure, huddling at the foot of the table, began to read. The essay, for all its schoolgirl slips and extravagances, was unusual. The thought embodied in it, though tinged with morbidity, striking and matured. Clare did it more than justice. Her beautiful voice made music of the crude sentences, revealed, embellished, glorified. Her own interest growing as she read, infected the class; she swept them along with her, mutually enthusiastic. She ended abruptly, her voice like the echoes of a deep bell. Marion broke the little pause. "I liked that," she said, as if surprised at herself. "So did I," Clare was pleased. She dipped her pen in red ink and initialled the foot of the essay. "That was good work, Louise. Now, the others." But Louise, shy and glowing, broke in-- "But it wasn't all mine, Miss Hartill, not a bit." Clare looked at her, half frowning. "Not yours? Your handwriting----?" "Oh, I wrote it. But you've made it different. I hadn't meant it like that." Clare raised a quizzical eyebrow. "I have misinterpreted----?" Louise was too much in earnest to be fluttered.