That
really was the end. Previously Elnora had canvassed a dozen methods for
securing the money for books, ranging all the way from offering to wash
the superintendent's dishes to breaking into the bank. This additional
expense made her plans so wildly impossible, there was nothing to do but
hold up her head until she was from sight.
Down the long corridor alone among hundreds, down the long street alone
among thousands, out into the country she came at last. Across the fence
and field, along the old trail once trodden by a boy's bitter agony, now
stumbled a white-faced girl, sick at heart. She sat on a log and began
to sob in spite of her efforts at self-control. At first it was physical
breakdown, later, thought came crowding.
Oh the shame, the mortification! Why had she not known of the tuition?
How did she happen to think that in the city books were furnished?
Perhaps it was because she had read they were in several states. But why
did she not know? Why did not her mother go with her? Other mothers--but
when had her mother ever been or done anything at all like other
mothers? Because she never had been it was useless to blame her now.
Elnora realized she should have gone to town the week before, called
on some one and learned all these things herself. She should have
remembered how her clothing would look, before she wore it in public
places. Now she knew, and her dreams were over. She must go home to
feed chickens, calves, and pigs, wear calico and coarse shoes, and with
averted head, pass a library all her life.
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