Sylvia was intent these days upon fitting herself as quickly as possible for teaching, becoming a part of the established system and avoiding none of the processes by which teachers are created.  Her fellow students, most of whom were younger than she, were practically all the green fruitage of high schools, but she asked no immunities or privileges by reason of her college training; she yielded herself submissively to the “system,” and established herself among the other novices on a footing of good comradeship.  During the hot, vexatious days she met them with unfailing good cheer.  The inspiring example of her college teachers, and not least the belief she had absorbed on the Madison campus in her girlhood, that teaching is a high calling, eased the way for her at times when—­as occasionally happened—­she failed to appreciate the beauty of the “system.”

The superintendent of schools, dropping into the Normal after hours, caught Sylvia in the act of demonstrating a problem in geometry on the blackboard for the benefit of a fellow student who had not yet abandoned the hope of entering the state university that fall.  The superintendent had been in quest of a teacher of mathematics for the Manual Training School, and on appealing to the Wellesley authorities they had sent him Sylvia’s name.  Sylvia, the chalk still in her fingers, met his humorous reproaches smilingly.  She had made him appear ridiculous in the eyes of her alma mater, he said.  Sylvia declined his offer and smiled.  The superintendent was not used to smiles like that in his corps.  And this confident young woman seemed to know what she was about.  He went away mystified, and meeting John Ware related his experience.  Ware laughed and slapped his knee.  “You let that girl alone,” the minister said.  “She has her finger on Time’s wrist.  Physician of the golden age.  Remember Matthew Arnold’s lines on Goethe?  Good poem.  Sylvia wants to know ’the causes of things.’  Watch her.  Great nature.”

At seven o’clock on a morning of September, Sylvia left Elizabeth House to begin her novitiate as a teacher.  Allen had declared his intention of sending his automobile for her every morning, an offer that was promptly declined.  However, on that bright morning when the young world turned schoolward, Harwood lay in wait for her.

“This must never happen again, sir!  And of course you may not carry my books—­they’re the symbol of my profession.  Seventeen thousand young persons about like me are on the way to school this morning right here in Indiana.  It would be frightfully embarrassing to the educational system if young gentlemen were allowed to carry the implements of our trade.”

“You can’t get rid of me now:  I never get up as early as this unless I’m catching a train.”

“So much the worse for you, then!”

“There will be mornings when you won’t think it so much fun.  It rains and snows in Indiana sometimes.”