Rilla of the Lighthouse

by Grace May North

  CHAPTER XXXIII. THE POETRY CONTEST.

  "Girls, have you heard that Miss Gordon has offered a prize for the bestpoem written by a student in any of her English literature classes?"

  Faith nodded. "I heard, but I haven't entered. I can't make two linesrhyme."

  "Nor could I," Gladys Goodsell said, and laughed over her shoulder at thenewcomer, for she was on the hearth rug roasting marshmallows over thefire.

  "Who of our clan is going to try for the prize beside myself?" inquiredthe flushed and excited Joy Kiersey. "Oh, I'd be the happiest, you can'tthink how happy, if only I could win it."

  "Why, Joy!" Gladys changed her position that she might divide herattention between the fire and the group of friends. "Why are you soeager to win the prize?"

  "Maybe it's a basket that Joy covets." This merrily from Faith.

  The golden head shook in the negative. "I adore writing poems," sheconfessed. "I wrote dozens of them last summer, but, then, the scenery inColorado and along Lake Tahoe would have inspired a stump to writeverse."

  A month had passed since the tennis tournament and Joy's strength hadreturned to her almost miraculously, and, to the delight of her friends,she was able to join them in their daily tramps across the snowy fieldsand she had even suggested a coasting party for the first moonlightnight.

  Too, she had taken her place in the classes and was going ahead of theothers, as she always did when she was strong enough to really study.

  Catherine Lambert looked up from the mysterious pink thing upon which shewas sewing. "It's a Christmas gift," was all that she would tell aboutit.

  In fact, all were sitting about the rose-shaded lamp in Muriel's roomthat stormy Friday night, sewing upon gifts equally pretty andmysterious. That is, all except Gladys, their youngest, who said that herfingers were thumbs when it came to sewing, and that she would far rathersit on the rug before the fire and roast marshmallows. One by one sheplaced the delicious golden puffs upon a warm plate, and when there was agoodly heap of them, she arose, saying: "Put away your sewing, girls, andpartake of the refreshments for which I have spent the last nickle I willhave until my Christmas money comes."

  "Poor Gladys," laughed Joy, as she perched upon the arm of the chair inwhich Muriel was seated. The island girl glanced up with a softeninglight in her eyes as she felt the caress upon her red-brown hair. Howclose these two had grown in the last month. Not that Muriel's love forFaith had lessened; in fact, all of these five girls were very dear toeach other, and yet between Joy and Muriel, who were so unlike, there wasgrowing a love the strength of which even they hardly knew. Joy,exquisite, dainty and as jubilant as her name suggested, had beensurrounded from babyhood with every luxury, while Muriel had known butthe bare necessities.

  "Whose names are entered?" Faith asked, as she put her sewing into adainty workbag and took one of the marshmallows.

  Joy counted them off on her fingers. "Dorothy Daggert first and foremost,and, since she is a senior and always wins A-1 in everything that shewrites, there will be little hope for any of the rest of us. Four othersin the senior class have entered, two in the sophomore, and, girls, whatdo you think? One of them is Marianne Carnot!"

  Faith's expression registered astonishment. "You must be mistaken," shesaid. "Marianne is in my class and she never writes verse, even when wemay choose the form for our composition."

  Miss Gordon had entered Muriel's name as one competing and it was becauseof this fact, as yet unknown to either Rilla or Joy, that Marianne Carnothad also entered her name.

  Miss Gordon looked up brightly one evening a fortnight later when sheheard a familiar tap on the door of her little apartment.

  "Good evening, Muriel," she said in response to the greeting from thegirl who had entered. "I have some news for you. Can you guess what itis?"

  "No, Miss Gordon, unless," and the hazel eyes were eager, "Uncle Lem iscoming for that long-promised visit."

  "Not that," the older woman smiled. "However, I have a letter from DoctorWinslow and in it he assures us both that just as soon as his duties willpermit he shall avail himself of our invitation. The news has somethingto do with your school work."

  Muriel had taken her usual seat, a low rocker on the side of thefireplace opposite her teacher. Miss Gordon, looking at the trulybeautiful face of the girl, and at the soft crown of hair that was likeburnished copper in the glow of the firelight, felt more than everconvinced that Muriel had inherited much from that unknown father.

  "Am I to be placed in one of the classes?" There was almost dread in thevoice that asked the question.

  Miss Gordon laughed. "Your expression, dear, is not complimentary to MissHumphrey, but, truly, Muriel, she is wonderfully kind beneath hernervous, flustery manner, but it isn't that. I am too selfish to give upteaching you. If you are satisfied with your present tutor, I assure youI am more than pleased with my pupil."

  Tears sprang to the hazel eyes. The girl leaned forward, her expressiveface telling more than words could.

  "I'll study that hard and be as little trouble as I can if only you'llkeep me just this year out, Miss Gordon." Then she inquired: "Now, may Iknow the news?"

  "It is about the poetry contest that I was thinking when you came in. Ihave been looking over the poems that have entered and although severalare good, I believe that your verses, 'To a Lonely Pelican,' are best;but, of course, as you know, dear, I am not to be the judge."

  "Who is, Miss Gordon?" Muriel asked.

  "An old friend of mine who is Professor of English in ColumbiaUniversity. The poems are to be sent him unsigned and he will decidewhich reveals the most talent."

  She was looking over a dozen neatly written contributions to the contestas she spoke. Taking one from among them, the older woman smiled at thegirl. "Muriel," she said, "I am surprised to see how prettily Joy Kierseycan write verse. This plaint of a Washoe Indian maid who yearns for thedays when her wigwam home was beside the lake that bears her name, andfor the young Indian brave who came to her in a bark canoe across thestar-reflecting waters, shows feeling and is artistically done. I believethat it will win second place."

  "Oh, Miss Gordon," Muriel's voice was eager, "may I withdraw my poem--ifyou think it might win?"

  The older woman looked up amazed. "Dear," she said, not understandingthis unusual request, "may I know your reason?"

  "I want Joy to win. She loves to write verse and she said it would pleaseher dad. He thinks it is wonderful because his daughter is talented. Heis so plain, just a business man without a bit of the artist in hisnature."

  Miss Gordon had surmised that a very tender love was binding these twogirls each day closer and closer and yet she hardly thought it fair topermit Muriel to make the sacrifice. Joy, she knew, would not wish it.

  "Has Marianne Carnot entered a poem yet?" the island girl asked.

  Miss Gordon's expression was hard to interpret. "No, and I very muchdoubt her doing so," she had just said when there came a tap on the door.Muriel answered the summons. A maid stood there with a rolled manuscript."It's for Miss Gordon," she said. "Mam'selle Carnot asked me to bringit."

  A moment later Miss Gordon looked up from the finely writtencontribution. "Muriel," she announced, "you will not need to withdrawyour poem, for this is by far the best. It is marked original, and,though I marvel at it, I may not question the honor of a pupil of HighCliffs. A week from today we will know whose poem has been awarded theprize."