An instant she hesitated timidly in the sombre frame of the doorway, looking far over our heads.  Then old Leggett came in front of her.  There was a word of presentation to Miss Berham, our teacher, the vision was escorted to a seat at my left front, and I was bade to continue the reading lesson if I ever expected to learn anything.  As a matter of truth I did not expect to learn anything more.  I thought I must suddenly have learned all there is to know.  The page of the ancient reader over which I then mumbled is now before me.  “A Good Investment” was the title of the day’s lesson, and I had been called upon to render the first paragraph.  With lightness, unrecking the great moment so perilously at hand, I had begun:  “’Will you lend me two thousand dollars to establish myself in a small retail business?’ inquired a young man, not yet out of his teens of a middle-aged gentleman who was poring over his ledger in the counting room of one of the largest establishments in Boston.”

The iron latch rattled, the door swung fatefully back, our heads were raised, our eyes bored her through and through.

Then swung a new world for me out of primeval chaos, and for aeons of centuries I dizzied myself gazing upon the pyrotechnic marvel.

“Continue, Calvin!—­if you ever expect to learn anything.”

The fabric of my vision crumbled.  Awake, I glared upon a page where the words ran crazily about like a disrupted colony of ants.  I stammered at the thing, feeling my cheeks blaze, but no two words would stay still long enough to be related.  I glanced a piteous appeal to authority, while old Leggett, still standing by, crumpled his shaven upper lip into a professional sneer that I did not like.

“That will do, Calvin.  Sit down!  Solon Denney, you may go on.”

With careless confidence, brushing the long brown lock from his fair brow, came Solon Denney to his feet.  With flawless self-possession he read, and I, disgraced, cowering in my seat, heard words that burned little inconsequential brands forever into my memory.  Well do I recall that the middle-aged gentleman regarded the young man with a look of surprise, and inquired, “What security can you give me?” to which the latter answered, “Nothing but my note.”

“‘Which I fear would be below par in the market,’ replied the merchant, smiling.

“‘Perhaps so,’ said the young man, ’but, Mr. Barton, remember that the boy is not the man; the time may come when Hiram Strosser’s note will be as readily accepted as that of any other man.’

“‘True, very true,’ replied Mr. Barton, thoughtfully, ’but you know business men seldom lend money without adequate security; otherwise they might soon be reduced to penury.’”

“Benny Jeliffe, you may go on!”

During this break I stole my second look at her.  The small head was sweetly bent with an air of studious absorption—­a head with two long plaits of braided gold, a scarlet satin bow at the end of each.