class of boys in the Academy, many of whom were much older than I. For
three years one boy kept his place at the head of the class, and I
always stood next. Two prizes were offered in Greek. I strove for one
and took the second. How well I remember my joy in receiving that prize.
There was no sentiment of ambition, rivalry, or triumph over my
companions, nor feeling of satisfaction in receiving this honor in the
presence of those assembled on the day of the exhibition. One thought
alone filled my mind. "Now," said I, "my father will be satisfied with
me." So, as soon as we were dismissed, I ran down the hill, rushed
breathless into his office, laid the new Greek Testament, which was my
prize, on his table and exclaimed: "There, I got it!" He took up the
book, asked me some questions about the class, the teachers, the
spectators, and, evidently pleased, handed it back to me. Then, while I
stood looking and waiting for him to say something which would show that
he recognized the equality of the daughter with the son, he kissed me on
the forehead and exclaimed, with a sigh, "Ah, you should have been a
boy!"

My joy was turned to sadness. I ran to my good doctor. He chased my
bitter tears away, and soothed me with unbounded praises and visions of
future success. He was then confined to the house with his last illness.
He asked me that day if I would like to have, when he was gone, the old
lexicon, Testament, and grammar that we had so often thumbed together.
"Yes, but I would rather have you stay," I replied, "for what can I do
when you are gone?" "Oh," said he tenderly, "I shall not be gone; my
spirit will still be with you, watching you in all life's struggles."
Noble, generous friend! He had but little on earth to bequeath to
anyone, but when the last scene in his life was ended, and his will was
opened, sure enough there was a clause saying: "My Greek lexicon,
Testament, and grammar, and four volumes of Scott's commentaries, I will