The Honor Girl (Love Endures)

 

© 2014 by Grace Livingston Hill

 

eBook Editions:
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

 

All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

 

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

 

Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

 

Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

 

 

TABLE OF CONTENTS

 

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
About the Author

Chapter 1

 

1920s

 

There was an audible hush, even above the tinkling notes of the piano, as Elsie stepped out onto the floor of the gymnasium and bowed to her audience.

This was the pièce de résistance of the program, and every eye was fastened upon the girl who had received more honors than any other girl in school. She had gone beyond mere speculation or jealousy and had become the admiration of the girls, the pride of the teachers. They delighted in her every achievement. Whatever she did, whether to lead in a debate, to work out a difficult problem in mathematics, or translate some complex sentence in Latin, they settled into silence and prepared to be entertained. That she had recently discovered a new gift in athletics was the crowning pleasure of her friends. And now upon the occasion of the annual Maypole Dance, given by the members of the gymnasium classes, Elsie Hathaway was to be distinguished again. The audience settled into instant quiet, with pleased expectation on every face.

Many distinguished men and women were present, parents and friends of the school, the smiling members of the faculty, a considerable number of students from the near-by men’s college, and even a sprinkling of gray-haired college professors. It was an audience worthy of anyone’s best efforts.

Just above the platform in the gallery sat Professor Bowen, the principal of the school, gray-haired, dignified, scholarly, with gentleness and kindliness written all over his strong, true face.

By his side sat a stranger, a former pupil in another school, a most attractive young man so far as looks were concerned, who had stopped over for a day to visit his old friend and teacher who had been his greatest inspiration during high school days.

Most of the program was over. The tall, white-robed queen with flowing hair, and wreaths of laurel and asparagus fern, like emerald frost-work over her white garments, had marched in with her fairy attendants dressed in all manner of fantastic costumes. They had placed her upon the throne, crowned her, danced about her and the Maypole; danced separately and together; danced with pink and blue and white ribbons around and around the pole until it stood sheathed in its woven rainbow.

Cameron Stewart, at first amused by the brilliant, ever-changing panorama, had begun to furtively count the remaining numbers on the program and wish that he and his dear Professor Bowen might slip away and have a good old-time talk. There were hosts of questions he wanted to ask, and as many things he wanted to tell, and here they had to sit and watch these girls playing like giddy butterflies. There was a good deal about girls’ schools that was like child’s play, he thought. Nonsense. You wouldn’t catch men wasting their time on silliness like that. He wondered that Professor Bowen could care to sit through it all. He was not even one of the judges—why didn’t he slip out? Would it do to suggest it? He had to take that early train in the morning, if possible, and there would be so little time to talk after this performance was over!

He cast a furtive glance at Professor Bowen to see if a suggestion of this kind would be welcome, but he saw on the old, kindly face an expression of deep interest, expectation, and satisfaction—the same that used to bloom for himself sometimes when he had done well at school, the look he had met when he stood up to deliver the valedictory speech. It had stirred his heart to its depths and had been his inspiration during that long and carefully prepared speech, helping him to put the right fire into his words. The interest in that kind face had been one of the long-cherished pictures on the walls of his memory. And was it possible that it could be worn for the sake of a foolish dancing girl? It was worth nothing then. It was but put on to please! He must tear the picture down from that most honored place in his heart and memory and realize that he was growing up and that nothing was as it had seemed when he was a boy. He was conscious of a distinct twinge of disappointment and jealousy, as with a deep, involuntary sight he turned to see what or who had the power to bring out the look which previously had not rested on that noble face for nothing.

Elsie Hathaway stood poised for an instant, surveying her audience, cool, self-possessed, lovely, a veritable fairy in her make-up.

She was small and slight, a dainty head set upon dainty shoulders, her garments green, soft, and fluffy. Even her slippers were apple green and her gown of green gauze, modest and simple, with a round neck, not too low, and little short puffed sleeves fitted closely to her round, pink arms. The greenness set off the red gold hair. She had taken off the wreath of green roses she had worn when she marched with the queen around the Maypole, and looked as simple as any wood nymph about to dance upon the moss of the forest. She swept a glance over her audience, then looked up in the gallery straight to where the stranger sat with the gray-haired professor, and gave him one cool, questioning glance. Somehow her eyes challenged his interest even against his will.