ry small silk handkerchief of the same color was drawn over her
shoulders and pinned where its two corners met her gown in front, making
a sort of triangle of whiteness,--some would say, "revealing a neck and
throat pure and white as a lily-leaf"; and they would say no more than
the truth, only I never like to put things in that way. Just so white
was her face. Her hair was black, soft, but not what the other girls
would have called smooth, or "slick." It was pulled away behind her
ears, and fixed up rather queerly in a great bunch behind, as if the
only aim were to get it out of the way. The upper part of her face was
the most striking,--the black eyebrows upon such a white, straight
forehead. I am rather particular in describing this new face,
because--well, perhaps because I remember it so distinctly. While I was
studying her as, I might perhaps say, a work of Art, she suddenly raised
her eyes, as people always do when they are watched. I looked away in a
hurry, though her eyes were just what I wanted to see more of, for they
were splendid eyes. "Splendid" is not the right word, though. Deep,
thoughtful, sorrowful, are the words which are floating about in my
mind. I wondered how she would look when animated, and watched, at
recess, for some of the others to talk to her.

But she seemed one by herself. While other girls chatted with their
beaux, or whispered wonderful secrets, she remained sitting alone, now
looking at her book, and now glancing around in a pitiful sort of way,
that made me feel like going to speak to her. In fact, as her teacher, I
was bound to do this, and, true to the promptings of duty, I walked
slowly down the alley. As I paused by her side, she glanced up in my
face. I never forgot that look. I might say that I never recovered from
the effects of it. I asked about her studies, and very willingly
explained a sum over which she had stumbled.

After this, she came every evening, and it usually happened that it was
most convenient for me to attend to her at recess. Helping her in her
sums was a pleasant thing to do, but in nothing was I more interested
than in the writing-exercise. I felt that I was indeed fortunate to be
in duty bound to follow the movement of her charming little hand across
the page, to teach her pretty fingers how to hold the pen; but then, if
pleasure and duty _would_ unite, how could I help it? Then I had a way,
all my own, of throwing looks sidelong at her face, while thus en