Chapter 51 A World of Girls: The Story of a School by L. T. Meade
The Prize Essay
Annie did not die. The fever passed away in that long and refreshing sleep, while Nan’s cool hand lay against her cheek. She came slowly, slowly back to life – to a fresh, a new, and a glad life. Hester, from being her enemy, was now her dearest and warmest friend. Her father was at home again, and she could no longer think or speak of herself as lonely or sad. She recovered, and in future days reigned as a greater favourite than ever at Lavender House. It is only fair to say that Tiger never went back to the gipsies, but devoted himself first and foremost to Annie, and then to the Captain, who pronounced him a capital dog, and when he heard his story vowed he never would part with him.
Owing to Annie’s illness, and to all the trouble and confusion which immediately ensued, Mrs Willis did not give away her prizes at the usual time; but when her scholars once more assembled at Lavender House she astonished several of them by a few words.
“My dears,” she said, standing in her accustomed place at the head of the long school-room, “I intend now, before our first day of lessons begins, to distribute those prizes which would have been yours, under ordinary circumstances, on the twenty-first of June. The prizes will be distributed during the afternoon recess: but here, and now, I wish to say something about – and also to give away – the prize for English composition. Six essays, all written with more or less care, have been given to me to inspect. There are reasons which we need not now go into which made it impossible to me to say anything in favour of a theme called ‘The River,’ written by my late pupil, Miss Russell: but I can cordially praise a very nice historical sketch of Marie Antoinette, the work of Hester Thornton. Mary Price has also written a study which pleases me much, as it shows thought and even a little originality. The remainder of the six essays simply reach an ordinary average. You will be surprised therefore, my dears, to learn that I do not award the prize to any of these themes, but rather to a seventh composition, which was put into my hands yesterday by Miss Danesbury. It is crude and unfinished, and doubtless but for her recent illness would have received many corrections: but these few pages, which are called ‘A Lonely Child,’ drew tears from my eyes; crude as they are, they have the merit of real originality. They are too morbid to read to you, girls, and I sincerely trust and pray the young writer may never pen anything so sad again. Such as they are, however, they rank first in the order of merit, and the prize is hers. Annie, my dear, come forward.”
Annie left her seat, and, amid the cheers of her companions, went up to Mrs Willis, who placed a locket, attached to a slender gold chain, round her neck; the locket contained a miniature of the head-mistress’s much-loved face.
“After all, think of our Annie Forest turning out clever, as well as being the prettiest and dearest girl in the school I exclaimed several or her companions.”
“Only I do wish,” added one, “that Mrs Willis had let us see the essay. Annie, treasure, come here; tell us what the ‘Lonely Child’ was about.”
“I don’t remember,” answered Annie. “I don’t know what loneliness means now, so how can I describe it?”
The End.