"That sounds more natural," said Uncle Charlie, but nobody listened.
"She's been missing," said Aunt Louise.
"She's growing too fast," said Aunt Cordelia, who had just been ripping two tucks out of Emmy Lou's last winter's dress; "she can't be well."
So Emmy Lou was taken to the doctor, who gave her a tonic. And following this, she all at once regained her usual cheerful little state of mind, and expressed no more unwillingness to go to school.
But it was not the tonic.
[Illustration: "One loved the far corner of the sofa."]
It was the Green and Gold Book.
Rosalie brought it. It belonged to her and to Alice and to Amanthus.
They lent it to Emmy Lou.
And the glamour opened and closed about Emmy Lou, and she knew-she knew it all-why the hair of Amanthus gleamed, why Alice flitted where others walked, why laughter dwelt in the cheek of Rosalie. The glamour opened and closed about Emmy Lou, and she and Rosalie and Alice and Amanthus moved in a world of their own-the world of the Green and Gold Book, for the Green and Gold Book was "The Book of Fairy Tales."
The strange, the inexplicable, the meaningless, that hitherto one had thought the real-teachers, problems, such-they became the outer world, the things of small matter.
One loved the far corner of the sofa now, with the book in one's lap, with one's hair falling about one's face and book, shutting out the unreal world and its people.
The real world lay between the covers of the Green and Gold Book-the real world and its people.
And the Princess was always Rosalie, and the Prince-ah! the Prince was the Prince. One had met one's Rosalie, but not yet the Prince.
One could not talk of these things except to Rosalie. Hattie would not understand. One was glad when Rosalie told them to Alice and Amanthus, but one could not tell one's self.
And Miss Lizzie? Miss Lizzie had stepped all at once into her proper place. One had not understood before. One would not want Miss Lizzie different. It was right and natural to Miss Lizzie's condition-which condition varied according to the page in the Book, for Miss Lizzie was the Cruel Step-mother, Miss Lizzie was the Wicked Fairy Godmother, Miss Lizzie was the Ogress, the wife of the terrible giant.
One told Rosalie. But Rosalie went even further. Miss Lizzie was the grim and terrible Ogress who dwelt in her lonely castle. True. The school-house was the castle of the Ogress. And the forty little girls in the Fourth Reader were the captives-the captive Princesses-kept by Miss Lizzie until certain tasks were performed.
One looked at Problems differently now. One saw Copy-books through a glamour. They were tasks, and each task done, the nearer release from Miss Lizzie.
Did one fail-?
Emmy Lou held her breath. Rosalie spoke softly: "The lady at the window-her finger at her lips-she had failed-"
Miss Lizzie was the Ogress, and the lady was the Princess-the captive Princess-waiting at the window for release.
And so one played one's part. And so Emmy Lou and Rosalie moved and lived and dreamed in the glamour and the world of the Green and Gold Book.
It stayed in one's desk-sometimes with Alice, or with Amanthus, sometimes with Rosalie. To-day it was with Emmy Lou.
One never read in school. But at recess, on the steps outside the big door, one read aloud in turn while the others ate their apples. And Hattie came, too, when she liked, and Sadie. But one carried the book home, that one might not be parted from it.
To-day it was with Emmy Lou. It had certain treasures between its leaves. One expects to find faint sweet rose-leaves between the pages of the Green and Gold Book, and the scrap of tinsel recalls the gleam and shimmer of the goose girl's ball-dress of woven moonbeams.
To-day the book was in Emmy Lou's desk.
Emmy Lou was at the board. It was Problems. She did not need a book. Miss Lizzie dictated when one was at the board. Emmy Lou was poor at Problems and Miss Lizzie was cross about it.
Sadie, at her desk, needed a book. She had forgotten her Arithmetic, and asked permission to borrow Emmy Lou's.
[Illustration: "You hadn't any right."]
She went to get it. She pulled it out. Sadie had a way of being unfortunate. She also pulled another book out which fell open on the floor, shedding rose-leaves and tinsel.
The green and gold glitter of the book caught Miss Lizzie's eye.
Her fingers had been tearing at bits of paper all morning until her desk was strewn.
"Bring it to me," she said.
Miss Lizzie took the book from Sadie and looked at it.
Emmy Lou had just failed quite miserably at Problems. Miss Lizzie's face changed. It was as if a white rage passed over it. She stepped to the stove and cast the book in.
The very flames turned green and gold.
It was gone-the world of glamour, of glory, of dreams-the world of Emmy Lou and Rosalie, of Alice and Amanthus.
It was not Emmy Lou. It was a cry through Emmy Lou. Emmy Lou was just beginning to grow tall, just losing the round-eyed faith of babyhood.
"You hadn't any right."
It was terrible. The Fourth Reader class failed to breathe.
Emmy Lou must say she was sorry. Emmy Lou would not.
The hours of school dragged on. Emmy Lou sat silent.
Rosalie looked at her. Laughter had died in Rosalie's cheek. Rosalie pressed her fingers tight in misery for Emmy Lou.
Sadie looked at Emmy Lou. Sadie wept.
Hattie looked at Emmy Lou. Hattie straightened her straight little back and ground her little teeth. Hattie was of that blood which has risen up and slain for affection's sake.
This was an Emmy Lou nobody knew-white-cheeked, brooding, defiant. There are strange potentialities in every Emmy Lou.
The last bell rang.
Emmy Lou must say she was sorry. Emmy Lou would not.
Everyone went-everyone but Emmy Lou and Miss Lizzie-casting backward looks of awe and commiseration.
To be left alone in that nearness solitude entails meant torture, the torture of loathing, of shrinking, of revulsion.
She must say she was sorry. Emmy Lou was not sorry.
She sat dry-eyed. The tears would come later. More than once this year they had come after home and Aunt Cordelia's arms were reached. And Aunt Cordelia had thought it was because one was growing too fast. And Aunt Cordelia had rocked and patted and sung about "The Frog Who Would A-Wooing Go."
And then Emmy Lou had laughed because Aunt Cordelia did not know that The Frog and Jenny Wren and The Little Wee Bear were gone into the past, and The Green and Gold Book come to take their place.
The bell had rung at two o'clock. At three Tom came. Tom was the house-boy. He was suave and saddle-coloured and smiling. He had come for Emmy Lou.
Miss Lizzie looked at Emmy Lou. Emmy Lou looked straight ahead.
Then Miss Lizzie looked at Tom. Miss Lizzie could do a good deal with a look. Tom became uneasy, apologetic, guilty. Then he went. It took a good deal to wilt Tom.
At half-past three he knocked at the door again. He gave his message from outside the threshold this time. Emmy Lou must come home. Miss Cordelia said so. Emmy Lou's papa had come.
Emmy Lou heard Papa-who came a hundred miles once a month to see her.
Would Emmy Lou say she was sorry? Emmy Lou was not sorry, she could not.
Miss Lizzie shut the door in Tom's face.
Later Aunt Cordelia, bonnet on, returning from the school, explained to her brother-in-law.
Her brother-in-law regarded her thoughtfully through his eye-glasses. He was an editor, and had a mental habit of classifying people while they talked, and putting them away in pigeon-holes. While Aunt Cordelia talked he was putting her in a pigeon-hole marked "Guileless."
"She stood on the outside of the door, Brother Richard," said Aunt Cordelia, quite flushed and breathless, "with the door drawn to behind her. She's a terrifying woman, Richard. She said it was a case for discipline. She said she would allow no interference. My precious baby! And I kept on giving her iron--"