But to Emmy Lou only one thing was clear. Kitty was being pointed out by the Principal and the Trustee to the visiting gentleman because she was head.
Dear Teacher took the book. She stood on the platform apart from the gentlemen, and gave out the words distinctly but very quietly.
Emmy Lou felt that Dear Teacher was troubled. Emmy Lou thought it was because Dear Teacher was afraid the poor spellers were going to miss. She made up her mind that she would not miss.
Dear Teacher began with the words on the first page and went forward. Emmy Lou could tell the next word to come each time, for she knew her Second Reader by heart as far as the class had gone.
She stood up when her time came and spelled her word. Her word was "wrong." She spelled it right.
Dear Teacher looked pleased. There was a time when Emmy Lou had been given to leaving off the introductory "w" as superfluous.
On the next round a little girl above Emmy Lou missed on "enough." To her phonetic understanding, a u and two f's were equivalent to an ough.
Emmy Lou spelled it right and went up one. The little girl went to her seat. She was no longer in the race. She was in tears.
Presently a little girl far up the line arose to spell.
"Right, to do right," said Dear Teacher.
"W-r-i-t-e, right," said the little girl promptly.
"R-i-t-e, right," said the next little girl.
The third stood up with triumph preassured. In spelling, the complicated is the surest, reasoned this little girl.
"W-r-i-g-h-t, right," spelled the certain little girl; then burst into tears.
The mothers of the future grew demoralised. The pillars of state of English orthography at least seemed destined to totter. The spelling grew wild.
"R-i-t, right."
"W-r-i-t, right."
Then in the desperation of sheer hopelessness came "w-r-i-t-e, right," again.
There were tears all along the line. At their wits' end, the mothers, dissolving as they rose in turn, shook their heads hopelessly.
Emmy Lou stood up. She knew just where the word was in a column of three on page 14. She could see it. She looked up at Dear Teacher, quiet and pale, on the platform.
"R," said Emmy Lou, steadily, "i-g-h-t, right."
A long line of weeping mothers went to their seats, and Emmy Lou moved up past the middle of the bench.
The words were now more complicated. The nerves of the mothers had been shaken by this last strain. Little girls dropped out rapidly. The foot moved on up toward the head, until there came a pink spot on Dear Teacher's either cheek. For some reason Dear Teacher's head began to hold itself finely erect again.
"Beaux," said Dear Teacher.
The little girl next the head stood up. She missed. She burst into audible weeping. Nerves were giving out along the line. It went wildly down. Emmy Lou was the last. Emmy Lou stood up. It was the first word of a column on page 22. Emmy Lou could see it. She looked at Dear Teacher.
"B," said Emmy Lou, "e-a-u-x, beaux."
The intervening mothers had gone to their seats, and Kitty and Emmy Lou were left.
Kitty spelled triumphantly. Emmy Lou spelled steadily. Even Dear Teacher's voice showed a touch of the strain.
She gave out half a dozen words. Then "receive," said Dear Teacher.
It was Kitty's turn. Kitty stood up. Dear Teacher's back was to the blackboard. The Trustee and the visiting gentleman were also facing the class. Kitty's eyes, as she stood up, were on the board.
"The best speller in this room is to recieve this medal,"
was the assurance on the board.
Kitty tossed her little head. "R-e, re, c-i-e-v-e, ceive, receive," spelled Kitty, her eyes on the blackboard.
"Wrong."
Emmy Lou stood up. It was the second word in a column on a picture page. Emmy Lou could see it. She looked at Dear Teacher.
"R-e, re, c-e-i-v-e, ceive, receive," said Emmy Lou.
One person beside Kitty had noted the blackboard. Already the Principal was passing an eraser across the words of the visiting gentleman.
Dear Teacher's cheeks were pink as Emmy Lou's as she led Emmy Lou to receive the medal. And her head was finely erect. She held Emmy Lou's hand through it all.
The visiting gentleman's manner was a little stony. It had quite lost its playfulness. He looked almost gloomily on the mother who had upheld the pillars of state and the future generally.
It was a beautiful medal. It was a five-pointed star. It said "Reward of Merit."
The visiting gentleman lifted it from its bed of pink cotton.
"You must get a ribbon for it," said Dear Teacher.
Emmy Lou slipped her hand from Dear Teacher's. She went to the front desk. She got her Second Reader, and brought forth a folded packet from behind the criss-cross stitches holding the cover.
Then she came back. She put the paper in Dear Teacher's hand.
"There's a ribbon," said Emmy Lou.
They were at dinner when Emmy Lou got home. On a blue ribbon around her neck dangled a new medal. In her hand she carried a shiny box.
Even Uncle Charlie felt there must be some mistake.
Aunt Louise got her hat to hurry Emmy Lou right back to school.
At the gate they met Dear Teacher's carriage, taking Dear Teacher home. She stopped.
Aunt Cordelia came out, and Aunt Katie. Uncle Charlie, just going, stopped to hear.
"Spelling match!" said Aunt Louise.
"Not our Emmy Lou?" said Aunt Katie.
"The precious baby," said Aunt Cordelia.
"Hammel," said Uncle Charlie, "McKoeghany," and Uncle Charlie smote his thigh.
"I SING OF HONOUR AND THE FAITHFUL HEART"
The Real Teacher was sick. The Third Reader was to begin its duties with a Substitute. The Principal announced it to the class, looking at them coldly and stating the matter curtly. It was as though he considered the Third Reader Class to blame.
Somehow Emmy Lou felt apologetic about it and guilty. And she watched the door. A Substitute might mean anything. Hattie, Emmy Lou's desk-mate, watched the door, too, but covertly, for Hattie did not like to acknowledge she did not know.
[Illustration: "Hattie peeped out from behind the shed."]
The Substitute came in a little breathlessly. She was pretty-as pretty as Emmy Lou's Aunt Katie. She seemed a little uncertain as to what to do. Perhaps she felt conscious of forty pairs of eyes waiting to see what she would do.
The Substitute stepped hesitatingly up on the platform. She gripped the edge of the desk, and opened her lips, but nothing came. She closed them and swallowed. Then she said, "Children--"
"She's goin' to cry!" whispered Hattie, in awed accents. Emmy Lou felt it would be terrible to see her cry. It was evidently something so unpleasant to be a Substitute that Emmy Lou's heart went out to her.
But the Substitute did not cry. She still gripped the desk, and after a moment went on: "-you will find printed on the slips of paper upon each desk the needs of the Third Reader."
She did not cry, but everybody felt the tremor in her voice. The Substitute was young, and new to her business.
Reading over the needs of the Third Reader printed on the slips of paper, Emmy Lou found them so complicated and lengthy she realised one thing-she would have to have a new school-bag, a larger, stronger one, to accommodate them.
Now, there is a difference between a Real Teacher and a Substitute. The Real Teacher loves mystery and explains grudgingly. The Real Teacher stands aloof, with awe and distance between herself and the inhabitants of the rows of desks she holds dominion over.
But a Substitute tells the class all about her duty and its duty, and about what she is planning and what she expects of them. A Substitute makes the occupants of the desks feel flattered and conscious and important.
The Substitute's name was Miss Jenny. The class speedily adored her. Soon her desk might have been a shrine to Pomona. It was joy to forego one's apple to swell the fruitage of adoration piled on Miss Jenny's desk. The class could scarcely be driven to recess, since going tore them from her. They found their happiness in Miss Jenny's presence.