day before Rebecca started for the South with Miss Maxwell she was in the library with Emma Jane and Huldah, consulting dictionaries and encyclopaedias. As they were leaving they passed the locked cases containing the library of fiction, open to the teachers and townspeople, but forbidden to the students.
They looked longingly through the glass, getting some little comfort from the titles of the volumes, as hungry children imbibe emotional nourishment from the pies and tarts inside a confectioner’s window. Rebecca’s eyes fell upon a new book in the corner, and she read the name aloud with delight: “The Rose of Joy. Listen, girls; isn’t that lovely? The Rose of Joy. It looks beautiful, and it sounds beautiful. What does it mean, I wonder?”
“I guess everybody has a different rose,” said Huldah shrewdly. “I know what mine would be, and I’m not ashamed to own it. I’d like a year in a city, with just as much money as I wanted to spend, horses and splendid clothes and amusements every minute of the day; and I’d like above everything to live with people that wear low necks.” (Poor Huldah never took off her dress without bewailing the fact that her lot was cast in Riverboro, where her pretty white shoulders could never be seen.)
“That would be fun, for a while anyway,” Emma Jane remarked. “But wouldn’t that be pleasure more than joy? Oh, I’ve got an idea!”
“Don’t shriek so!” said the startled Huldah. “I thought it was a mouse.”
“I don’t have them very often,” apologized Emma Jane,—“ideas, I mean; this one shook me like a stroke of lightning. Rebecca, couldn’t it be success?”
“That’s good,” mused Rebecca; “I can see that success would be a joy, but it doesn’t seem to me like a rose, somehow. I was wondering if it could be love?”
“I wish we could have a peep at the book! It must be perfectly elergant!” said Emma Jane. “But now you say it is love, I think that’s the best guess yet.”
All day long the four words haunted and possessed Rebecca; she said them over to herself continually. Even the prosaic Emma Jane was affected by them, for in the evening she said, “I don’t expect you to believe it, but I have another idea,—that’s two in one day; I had it while I was putting cologne on your head. The rose of joy might be helpfulness.”
“If it is, then it is always blooming in your dear little heart, you darlingest, kind Emmie, taking such good care of your troublesome Becky!”
“Don’t dare to call yourself troublesome! You’re—you’re—you’re my rose of joy, that’s what you are!” And the two girls hugged each other affectionately.
In the middle of the night Rebecca touched Emma Jane on the shoulder softly. “Are you very fast asleep, Emmie?” she whispered.
“Not so very,” answered Emma Jane drowsily.
“I’ve thought of something new. If you sang or painted or wrote,—not a little, but beautifully, you know,—wouldn’t the doing of it, just as much as you wanted, give you the rose of joy?”
“It might if it was a real talent,” answered Emma Jane, “though I don’t like it so well as love. If you have another thought, Becky, keep it till morning.”
“I did have one more inspiration,” said Rebecca when they were dressing next morning, “but I didn’t wake you. I wondered if the rose of joy could be sacrifice? But I think sacrifice would be a lily, not a rose; don’t you?”
The journey southward, the first glimpse of the ocean, the strange new scenes, the ease and delicious freedom, the intimacy with Miss Maxwell, almost intoxicated Rebecca. In three days she was not only herself again, she was another self, thrilling with delight, anticipation, and realization. She had always had such eager hunger for knowledge, such thirst for love, such passionate longing for the music, the beauty, the poetry of existence! She had always been straining to make the outward world conform to her inward dreams, and now life had grown all at once rich and sweet, wide and full. She was using all her natural, God-given outlets; and Emily Maxwell marveled daily at the inexhaustible way in which the girl poured out and gathered in the treasures of thought and experience that belonged to her. She was a lifegiver, altering the whole scheme of any picture she made a part of, by contributing new values. Have you never seen the dull blues and greens of a room changed, transfigured by a burst of sunshine? That seemed to Miss Maxwell the effect of Rebecca on the groups of people with whom they now and then mingled; but they were commonly alone, reading to each other and having quiet talks. The prize essay was very much on Rebecca’s mind. Secretly she thought she could never be happy unless she won it. She cared nothing for the value of it, and in this case almost nothing for the honor; she wanted to please Mr. Aladdin and justify his belief in her.
“If I ever succeed in choosing a subject, I must ask if you think I can write well on it; and then I suppose I must work in silence and secret, never even reading the essay to you, nor talking about it.”
Miss Maxwell and Rebecca were sitting by a little brook on a sunny spring day. They had been in a stretch of wood by the sea since breakfast, going every now and then for a bask on the warm white sand, and returning to their shady solitude when tired of the sun’s glare.
“The subject is very important,” said Miss Maxwell, “but I do not dare choose for you. Have you decided on anything yet?”
“No,” Rebecca answered; “I plan a new essay every night. I’ve begun one on What is Failure? and another on He and She. That would be a dialogue between a boy and girl just as they were leaving school, and would tell their ideals of life. Then do you remember you said to me one day, ‘Follow your Saint’? I’d love to write about that. I didn’t have a single thought in Wareham, and now I have a new one every minute, so I must try and write the essay here; think it out, at any rate, while I am so happy and free and rested. Look at the pebbles in the bottom of the pool, Miss Emily, so round and smooth and shining.”
“Yes, but where did they get that beautiful polish, that satin skin, that lovely shape, Rebecca? Not in the still pool lying on the sands. It was never there that their angles were rubbed off and their rough surfaces polished, but in the strife and warfare of running waters. They have jostled against other pebbles, dashed against sharp rocks, and now we look at them and call them beautiful.”
“If Fate had not made somebody a teacher,
She might have been, oh! such a splendid preacher!”
rhymed Rebecca. “Oh! if I could only think and speak as you do!” she sighed. “I am so afraid I shall never get education enough to make a good writer.”
“You could worry about plenty of other things to better advantage,” said Miss Maxwell, a little scornfully. “Be afraid, for instance, that you won’t understand human nature; that you won’t realize the beauty of the outer world; that you may lack sympathy, and thus never be able to read a heart; that your faculty of expression may not keep pace with your ideas,—a thousand things, every one of them more important to the writer than the knowledge that is found in books. AEsop was a Greek slave who could not even write down his wonderful fables; yet all the world reads them.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Rebecca, with a half sob. “I didn’t know anything until I met you!”
“You will only have had a high school course, but the most famous universities do not always succeed in making men and women. When I long to go abroad and study, I always remember that there were three great
