“There can be no one more fitted to do this, Judge Rodman,” Miss Messmore had promptly said, “than your daughter, Margaret Amelia, at whose suggestion this celebration, indeed, has come about.” Poor Margaret Amelia. In spite of her embroidered gown, her blue ribbons, and her blue stockings, I have seldom seen anyone look so wretched as did she when they made her mount that platform. To give her courage her father met her, and took her hand. And then, in his pride and confidence, something else occurred to him. “Tell us, Margaret Amelia,” he said with a gesture infinitely paternal, “how came the children to think of demanding of us wise-heads that we give observance to this day which we had already voted to let slip past unattended? What spirit moved the children to this act?” At first Margaret Amelia merely twisted, and fingered her sash at the side. Margaret Amelia was always called on for visitors’ days, and the like. She could usually command her faculties and give a straightforward answer, not so much because of what she knew as because of her unfailing self-confidence. Of this her father was serenely aware; but, aware also that the situation made unusual demands, he concluded to help her somewhat. “How came the children,” he encouragingly put it, “to think of making this fine effort to save our National holiday this year?” Margaret Amelia straightened slightly. She faced her audience with something of her native confidence, and told them:-- “Why,” she said, “we all had some Fourth of July money, and there wasn’t going to be any way to spend it.” A ripple of laughter ran round, and Judge Rodman’s placid pink turned to purple. “I fear,” he observed gravely, “that the immediate nature of the event has somewhat obscured the real significance of the children’s most superior movement. Now, my child! Miss Messmore thinks that you should recite for us at least a portion of the Declaration of Independence. Will you do so?” Margaret Amelia looked at him, down at us, away toward the waiting Wood Yard, and then at Miss Messmore. “Is it that about ‘The shades of night were falling fast’?” she demanded. In the roar of laughter that followed, Margaret Amelia ran down, poor child, and sobbed on Miss Messmore’s shoulder. I never think of that moment without something of a return of my swelling sympathy for her who suffered this species of martyrdom, and so needlessly. I have seen, out of schools and out of certain of our superstitions, many martyrdoms result, but never one that has touched me more. I do not know whether something of this feeling was in the voice that we next heard speaking, or whether that which animated it was only its own bitterness. That voice sounded, clear and low-pitched, through the time’s confusion. “I will read the Declaration of Independence,” it said. And making his way through the crowd, and mounting the platform steps, we saw Mary Elizabeth’s father.