Depression and revolt struggled in her mind. She passed the wide, empty doorway of Harner’s livery-stable, the glowing forge of the blacksmith-shop, without seeing them, absorbed in the turmoil of her thoughts. But at the corner where the gravel walk began, and the street frankly became a country road slipping down a little slope between scattered white cottages, her self-absorption vanished.
A boy was walking slowly down the path. The elaborate unconcern of his attitude, the stiffness of his self-conscious back, told her that he had been waiting for her, and a rush of dizzying emotion swept away all but the immediate moment. The sunshine was warm on her shoulders, the grass of the lawns was green, every lace-curtained window behind the rosebushes seemed to conceal watching eyes, and the sound of her feet on the gravel was loud in her ears. She overtook him at last, trying not to walk too fast. They smiled at each other.
“Hello, Paul,” she said shyly.
He was a stocky, dark-haired boy, with blue eyes. His father was dead, killed in a mine over at Cherokee. He had come down to the Masonville school, and they were in the same class, the class that would graduate that spring. He was studying hard, trying to get as much education as possible before he would have to go to work. He lived with his mother in a little house near the edge of town, on the road to the farm.
“Hello,” he replied. He cleared his throat. “I had to go to the post-office to mail a letter,” he said.
“Did you?” she answered. She tried to think of something else to say. “Will you be glad when school’s over?” she asked.
Paul and she stood at the head of the class. He was better in arithmetic, but she beat him in spelling. For a long time they had exchanged glances of mutual respect across the schoolroom. Someone had told her that Paul said she was all right. He had beat her in arithmetic that day. “She takes a licking as well as a boy,” was what he had said. But she had gone home and looked in the mirror.
The flutter at her heart had stopped then. No, she was not pretty. Her features were too large, her forehead too high. She despised the face that looked back at her. She longed for tiny, pretty features, large brown eyes, a low forehead with curling hair. The eyes in the mirror were gray and the hair was straight and brown. Not even a pretty, light brown. It was almost black. For the first time she had desperately wanted to be pretty. But now she did not care. He had waited for her, anyway.
They walked slowly along the country road, under the arch of the trees, through the branches of which the sun sent long, slanting rays of light. There was a colored haze over the leafless orchards, and the hills were freshly green from the rains.
“Well, I’ve got a job promised as soon as school is over,” said Paul.
“What kind of job?” she asked.
“Working at the depot. It pays fifteen a month to start,” he replied. It was as if they were uttering poetry. The words did not matter. What they said did not matter.
“That’s fine,” she said. “I wish I had a job.”
“Gee, I hate to see a girl go to work,” said Paul.
His lips were full and very firm. When he set them tightly, as he did then, he looked determined. There was something obstinate about the line of his chin and the slight frown between his heavy black brows. Her whole nature seemed to melt and flow toward him.
“I don’t see why!” she flashed. “A girl like me has to work if she’s going to get anywhere. I bet I could do as well as a boy if I had a chance.”
The words were like a defensive armor between her and her real desire. She did not want to work. She wanted to be soft and pretty, tempting and teasing and sweet. She wanted to win the things she desired by tears and smiles and coaxing. But she did not know how.
Paul looked at her admiringly. He said, “I guess you could, all right. You’re pretty smart for a girl.”
She glowed with pleasure.
They had often walked along this road as far as his house, when accident brought them home from school at the same time. But their talk had never had this indefinable quality, as vague and beautiful as the misty color over the orchards.
Sometimes she had stopped at his house for a few minutes. His mother was a little woman with brisk, bustling manner. She always stood at the door to see that they wiped their feet before they went in. The house was very neat. There was an ingrain carpet on the front-room floor, swept till every thread showed. The center-table had a crocheted tidy on it and a Bible and a polished seashell. This room rose like a picture in her mind as they neared the gate. She did not want to leave Paul, but she did not want to go into that room with him now.
“Look here—wait a minute—” he said, stopping in the gateway. “I wanted to tell you—” He turned red and looked down at one toe, boring into the soft ground. “About this being valedictorian—”
“Oh!” she said. There had been a fierce rivalry between them for the honor of being valedictorian at the graduating exercises. There was nothing to choose between them in scholarship, but Paul had won. She knew the teachers had decided she did not dress well enough to take such a prominent part.
“I hope you don’t feel bad about it, Helen,” he went on awkwardly. “I told them I’d give it up, because you’re a girl, and anyway you ought to have it, I
