Miss Emily Black was a young woman, and, I thought, a handsome one.  She had crenelated black hair, large black eyes, a Roman nose, and long white teeth.  She bit her nails when annoyed, and when her superiority made her perceive the mental darkness of others she often laughed.  Being pious, she conducted her school after the theologic pattern of the Nipswich Seminary, at which she had been educated.  She opened the school each day with a religious exercise, reading something from the Bible, and commenting upon it, or questioning us regarding our ideas of what she read.  She often selected the character of David, and was persistent in her efforts to explain and reconcile the discrepancies in the history of the royal Son of Israel.

“Miss C. Morgeson, we will call you,” she said, in our first interview; “the name of Cassandra is too peculiar.”

“My Grandfather Locke liked the name; my sister’s is Veronica; do you like that better?”

“It is of no consequence in the premises what your sister may be named,” she replied, running her eyes over me.  “What will she study, Miss Warren?”

Aunt Mercy’s recollections of my studies were dim, and her knowledge of my school days was not calculated to prepossess a teacher in my favor; but after a moment’s delay, she said:  “What you think best.”

“Very well,” she answered; “I will endeavor to fulfill my Christian duty toward her.  We will return to the school-room.”

We had held the conversation in the porch, and now Aunt Mercy gave me a nod of encouragement, and bidding Miss Black “Good day,” departed, looking behind her as long as possible.  I followed my teacher.  As she opened the door forty eyes were leveled at me; my hands were in my way suddenly; my feet impeded my progress; how could I pass that wall of eyes?  A wisp of my dry, rough hair fell on my neck and tickled it; as I tried to poke it under my comb, I glanced at the faces before me.  How spirited and delicate they were!  The creatures had their heads dressed as if they were at a party—­in curls, or braids and ribbons.  An open, blank, noli me tangere expression met my perturbed glance.  I stood still, but my head went round.  Miss Black mounted her desk, and surveyed the school-room.  “Miss Charlotte Alden, the desk next you is vacant; Miss C. Morgeson, the new pupil, may take it.”

Miss Charlotte answered, “Yes mim,” and ostentatiously swept away an accumulation of pencils, sponges, papers, and books, to make room for me.  I took the seat, previously stumbling against her, whereat all the girls, whose regards were fixed upon me, smiled.  That was my initiation.

The first day I was left to myself, to make studies.  The school-room was in the vestry of the church, a building near grand’ther’s house.  Each girl had a desk before her.  Miss Black occupied a high stool in a square box, where she heard single recitations, or lectured a pupil.  The vestry yard, where the girls romped, and exercised with skipping ropes, a swing, and a set of tilting-boards, commanded a view of grand’ther’s premises; his street windows were exposed to the fire of their eyes and tongues.