of everything. That is why I am
able to tell you everything now.

The assembly hall was crowded to bursting, but my friends had no
trouble in finding seats. They were ushered up to the platform, which
was reserved for guests of honor. I was very proud to see my friends
treated with such distinction. My parents were there, and Frieda, of
course; Miss Dillingham, and some others of my Chelsea teachers. A
dozen or so of my humbler friends and acquaintances were scattered
among the crowd on the floor.

When I stepped up on the stage to read my composition I was seized
with stage fright. The floor under my feet and the air around me were
oppressively present to my senses, while my own hand I could not have
located. I did not know where my body began or ended, I was so
conscious of my gloves, my shoes, my flowing sash. My wonderful dress,
in which I had taken so much satisfaction, gave me the most trouble. I
was suddenly paralyzed by a conviction that it was too short, and it
seemed to me I stood on absurdly long legs. And ten thousand people
were looking up at me. It was horrible!

I suppose I no more than cleared my throat before I began to read, but
to me it seemed that I stood petrified for an age, an awful silence
booming in my ears. My voice, when at last I began, sounded far away.
I thought that nobody could hear me. But I kept on, mechanically; for
I had rehearsed many times. And as I read I gradually forgot myself,
forgot the place and the occasion. The people looking up at me heard
the story of a beautiful little boy, my cousin, whom I had loved very
dearly, and who died in far-distant Russia some years after I came to
America. My composition was not a masterpiece; it was merely good for
a girl of fifteen. But I had written that I still loved the little
cousin, and I made a thousand strangers feel it. And before the
applause there was a moment of stillness in the great hall.

After the singing and reading by the class, there were the customary
addresses by distinguished guests. We girls were reminded that we were
going to be women, and happiness was promised to those of us who would
aim to be noble women. A great many trite and obvious things, a great
deal of the rhetoric appropriate to the occasion, compliments,
applause, general satisfaction; so went the programme. Much of the
rhetoric, many of the fine sentiments did not penetrate to the
thoughts of us for whom they were intended, because we were in such a