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Rh word about Cass or about any other person or subject ever proceeded from the lips of Little X. Of course we got used to her, only I would often wonder shat she really was like, back of that perfectly blank face; and sometimes when we were all siting around the hall fire after dinner, I ’d go over to Little X and try to talk to her—I ’m naturally bold, the girls all say, and besides it did seem dreadful for her always to be sitting there all alone. But I had to give it up. Little X always looked as if I was most unwelcome, and I ’m not used to being treated that way. The other girls had given her up long ago, and after a while I did, too.

Miss Noble told us that Little X’s English compositions were the best in the class, and that we would do well to cultivate her. After that I made a final dying effort, and invited Little X for a walk. Of course I did all the talking, not in the least knowing what I was saying. In the middle of an eloquent discourse on hockey, she interrupted in a dreamy manner, “Don’t you think trees are much better friends than people are—so much nicer and more satisfying?” Now that kind of remark—the float-away-in-the-clouds-good-by-earth kind—is what I can’t keep up with. I stammered out something to the effect that I preferred people every time,and I never asked Little X to walk again.

‘There was some talk, I remember, of inviting Little X to join the Lit Society, because Miss Noble said she ’d do it credit. We talked the matter over, and then we decided that we simply could n’t stand her. We ’ve always been so jolly and free and easy in the Lit Society, and an iceberg in our midst would have been dampening. When we “’fessed up” to Miss Noble that we ‘d voted against Little X, she remarked absently, “You girls are a puzzle to me.”

‘There was another period of discussion when Christmas vacation came around. It has been a point of honor—but never before proclaimed like this—with some of us that no girl should be left to spend Christmas in the school. I once took home five “waifs” and “strays,” and Judy, who lives in the same town, took three. Well, Judy and I had the worst time deciding about Little X. She ’d have to stay all alone with the Canadian matron if we did n’t take her, for all the other girls from distant parts were provided for. If either Judy or I invited her, we could help each other out; but oh, dear, imagine Little X at a house-party! “She 'd be sure to spoil everything!” wailed Judy. “I just can’t.”

“Neither can I!” I answered, and so Little X and the gentry of British America kept each other company for vacation.

But the climax of my story resulted from that dreadful, dreadful English class, which occurred sometime in January. Miss Noble does n’t often make us read our papers aloud—almost never before she ’s read them herself; but that morning she did. We had written fairy stories in the style of Andersen, and Miss Noble had explained just what she wanted, and showed us just how we could pack in pretty descriptions, or sarcasm, or humor, or pathos. She called for several papers that were n’t much good, and then she asked for Judy’s, which was the prettiest thing! —about a little merbaby,—and then she asked for mine. I had gone in for the humorous myself, and it was rather good, if I do say so—“The Frog Who Would A-wooing Go.” The girls just roared—all but Little X. It was Little X’s own turn next. But when Miss Noble called on her, she tried to beg off. “Please, please don’t ask me, Miss Noble!”

“Yes, Natalie, if you please,” Miss Noble answered in that firm, pleasant manner of hers (as if anybody need ever try to beg off with Miss Noble!).

I shall never forget Little X’s face, or her voice, or how Miss Noble pressed her fingers together, or the stillness of the room, or anything else of that dreadful morning. It seemed to me that I could not sit there and listen, and I shot a look at Miss Noble that meant “Do, do stop her!” Miss Noble did open her lips once as if she would make her stop, and then she closed them again. I knew what that meant—she had decided that it would be a good lesson for us. Perhaps it was n’t so much what Little X read as the tenseness in her voice that went through me so.

This is the composition that she read—no matter how it came into my possession. It was called