But even if we would rather be dead than alive, as long as we are alive there remain certain duties which have to be performed regardless of the state of our emotional barometers, and Migwan discovered with a start one day that there were at least a dozen letters in her top bureau drawer waiting to be answered. “It’s a shame,” she said to herself, as she looked them over. “I haven’t written to the Bartletts since last November.” The Bartletts were the parents of the little boy who was traced by the aid of her timely snapshot. She opened Mrs. Bartlett’s letter and glanced over it to put herself in the mood for answering it. She laughed sardonically as she read. Mrs. Bartlett, confident that Migwan was going to use the reward money to go to college, discussed the merits of different courses, and advised Migwan, above all things, with her talent for writing, to put the emphasis on literature and history. Migwan took a certain grim delight in telling Mrs. Bartlett what had happened to her ambition to go to college. She had a Homeric sense of humor that could see the point when the gods were playing pranks on helpless mortals. She told the story simply and frankly, without any “literary style,” such as was usually present in her letters to a high degree; neither did she bewail her lot and seek sympathy, for Migwan was no craven.
Then, having told Mrs. Bartlett that she had made up her mind to give up thoughts of college for several years at least, as her duty to her mother came before her ambition, and had sealed and sent away the letter, it suddenly came over her that the writing she had done all winter and which she now considered a waste of time, had done something for her after all; it had taught her the use of the typewriter, a knowledge which she could turn to account during the summertime, and by working in an office somewhere, she could possibly earn enough money to enter college in the fall after all. And up went Migwan’s spirits again, like a jack-in-the-box, and went soaring among the clouds like the swallows.
AN AUTOMOBILE AND A DRIVER.
Along in the last week of May, Nyoda, on a shopping tour downtown, dropped into a restaurant for a bit of lunch. As she was sitting down to the table, another young woman came and sat down opposite her. The two glanced at each other.
“Why, Elizabeth Kent!” exclaimed the latest arrival.
“Why, Norma Williamson!” exclaimed Nyoda, recognizing an old college friend.
“Not Norma Williamson any more,” said the friend, blushing as she drew off her glove and displayed the rings on her fourth finger; “Norma Bates.”