"Good-by, Miss Willis. I'm going to be at the head of my class next
year; see if I'm not!"

So said Jimmy as he left her. She hesitated a moment, then stooped and
kissed him. It made her blush, for she had never kissed a pupil
before, nor any one but her mother since Sir Galahad. It made Jimmy
blush, too, for he did not know exactly what to make of it. So they
parted, and Jimmy went up the ladder of knowledge for two years more
at that school. He was not the head of his class; he was number five
the first year and number three the second. When he graduated he
promised to write; but, boylike, he never did, so he vanished into the
open polar world, and was lost to the eyes of the woman who had grown
gray in his service.

Yes, Miss Willis had grown gray. That is, there were more or less
becoming threads of silver in her maiden tresses, and the dignity of
middle age had added inches to her waist and a few interesting lines
to her forehead. There was no new Sir Galahad on the horizon even of
her day-dreams, and her mother was in failing health. Mrs. Willis
continued now to fail for five years--years which taxed her daughter's
strength, though not her affection. Pupils came and went--pupils to
whom she gave herself with the faithfulness of her New England
conscience--but no one exactly like Jimmy. He remained unique, yet
lost in the maze of life. When her mother died she settled down as an
incorrigible old maid, and her daydreams knew no more the vision of a
love coming from the clouds to possess her. Nor did the years bring
with them realization of that other vision--herself enthroned in the
public mind as a wonderful educator to whom the world should bow. She
was only Miss Marion Willis, the next to the oldest and the most