He sat for a moment regarding the papers with a frown; then, with a
sudden movement, he went over the names that headed each paper. Two he
laid aside. They bore above their dates in March, eighteen sixty-one,
the name Rosemary Roselle.
He picked one up tentatively. It was called A Letter. Elim opened it
and regarded its tenuous violet script. Then, with an expression of
augmented determination, he folded it again and placed it with its
fellow at the bottom of the heap. He firmly attacked the topmost theme.
He read it slowly, made a penciled note in a small precise hand on its
margin, folded it once more and marked it with a C minus. He went
carefully through the pile, jotting occasional comments, judging the
results with A, B or C, plus or minus. Finally only the two he had
placed at the bottom remained.
Elim took one up again, gazing at it severely. He wondered what
Rosemary Roselle had written about--in her absurd English--this time.
As he looked at the theme's exterior, his attention shifted from the
paper to himself, his conscience towered darkly above him, demanding a
condemnatory examination of his feelings and impulses.
Had he not begun to look for, to desire, those essays from a doubtless
erroneous and light young woman? Had he not even, on a former like
occasion, awarded her effort with a B minus, when it was questionable
if she should have had a C plus? Had his conduct not been dishonest,
frivolous and wholly reprehensible? To all these inexorable accusations
he was forced to confess himself guilty.
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