Chapter: I NOTICED one afternoon that grandmother had been crying. Her feet seemed
to drag as she moved about the house, and I got up from the table where I
was studying and went to her, asking if she did n't feel well, and if I
could n't help her with her work.

"No, thank you, Jim. I'm troubled, but I guess I'm well enough. Getting a
little rusty in the bones, maybe," she added bitterly.

I stood hesitating. "What are you fretting about, grandmother? Has
grandfather lost any money?"

"No, it ain't money. I wish it was. But I've heard things. You must 'a'
known it would come back to me sometime." She dropped into a chair, and
covering her face with her apron, began to cry. "Jim," she said, "I was
never one that claimed old folks could bring up their grandchildren. But
it came about so; there was n't any other way for you, it seemed like."

I put my arms around her. I could n't bear to see her cry.

"What is it, grandmother? Is it the Firemen's dances?"

She nodded.

"I'm sorry I sneaked off like that. But there's nothing wrong about the
dances, and I have n't done anything wrong. I like all those country
girls, and I like to dance with them. That's all there is to it."

"But it ain't right to deceive us, son, and it brings blame on us. People
say you are growing up to be a bad boy, and that ain't just to us."

"I don't care what they say about me, but if it hurts you, that settles
it. I won't go to the Firemen's Hall again."

I kept my promise, of course, but I found the spring months dull enough. I
sat at home with the old people in the evenings now, reading Latin that
was not in our High-School course. I had made up my mind to do a lot of
college requirement work in the summer, and to enter the freshman class at
the University without conditions in the fall. I wanted to get away as
soon as possible.

Disapprobation hurt me, I found,--even that of people whom I did not
admire. As the spring came on, I grew more and more lonely, and fell back
on the telegrapher and the cigar-maker and his canaries for companionship.
I remember I took a melancholy pleasure in hanging a May-basket for Nina
Harling that spring. I bought the flowers from an old German woman who
always had more window plants than any one else, and spent an afternoon
trimming a little work-basket. When dusk came on, and the new moon hung in
the sky, I went quietly to the Harlings' front door with my offering, rang
the bell, and then ran away as was the custom. Through the willow hedge I
could hear Nina's cries of delight, and I felt comforted.

On those warm, soft spring evenings I often lingered downtown to walk home
with Frances, and talked to her about my plans and about the reading I was
doing. One evening she said she thought Mrs. Harling was not seriously
offended with me.

"Mama is as broad-minded as mothers ever are, I guess. But you know she
was hurt about Antonia, and she can't understand why you like to be with
Tiny and Lena better than with the girls of your own set."

"Can you?" I asked bluntly.

Frances laughed. "Yes, I think I can. You knew them in the country, and
you like to take sides. In some ways you're older than boys of your age.
It will be all right with mama after you pass your college examinations
and she sees you're in earnest."

"If you were a boy," I persisted, "you would n't belong to the Owl Club,
either. You'd be just like me."

She shook her head. "I would and I would n't. I expect I know the country
girls better than you do. You always put a kind of glamour over them. The
trouble with you, Jim, is that you're romantic. Mama's going to your
Commencement. She asked me the other day if I knew what your oration is to
be about. She wants you to do well."

I thought my oration very good. It stated with fervor a great many things
I had lately discovered. Mrs. Harling came to the Opera House to hear the
Commencement exercises, and I looked at her most of the time while I made
my speech. Her keen, intelligent eyes never left my face. Afterward she
came back to the dressing-room where we stood, with our diplomas in our
hands, walked up to me, and said heartily: "You surprised me, Jim. I did
n't believe you could do as well as that. You did n't get that speech out
of books." Among my graduation presents there was a silk umbrella from
Mrs. Harling, with my name on the handle.

I walked home from the Opera House alone. As I passed the Methodist
Church, I saw three white figures ahead of me, pacing up and down under
the arching maple trees, where the moonlight filtered through the lush
June foliage. They hurried toward me; they were waiting for me--Lena and
Tony and Anna Hansen.

"Oh, Jim, it was splendid!" Tony was breathing hard, as she always did
when her feelings outran her language. "There ain't a lawyer in Black Hawk
could make a speech like that. I just stopped your grandpa and said so to
him. He won't tell you, but he told us he was awful surprised himself, did
n't he, girls?"

Lena sidled up to me and said teasingly: "What made you so solemn? I
thought you were scared. I was sure you'd forget."

Anna spoke wistfully. "It must make you happy, Jim, to have fine thoughts
like that in your mind all the time, and to have words to put them in. I
always wanted to go to school, you know."

"Oh, I just sat there and wished my papa could hear you! Jim,"--Antonia
took hold of my coat lapels,--"there was something in your speech that made
me think so about my papa!"

"I thought about your papa when I wrote my speech, Tony," I said. "I
dedicated it to him."

She threw her arms around me, and her dear face was all wet with tears.

I stood watching their white dresses glimmer smaller and smaller down the
sidewalk as they went away. I have had no other success that pulled at my
heartstrings like that one.

 One afternoon Jim finds his grandmother crying. Finally she admits that she knows that he's been sneaking out to the Firemen's dances. Jim tries to tell her that there's nothing wrong with those dances and that he likes spending time with the country girls. But she argues that it isn't right for Jim to deceive his grandparents. People in town are saying that he is a bad boy. Jim doesn't care what people say, but he agrees to stop going to the dances to make his grandparents happy. Now it's Spring and Jim is more bored than ever. He stays at home at night and studies Latin. He's trying to get a lot of college work done over the summer so that he's ahead once he goes to college. Jim gets lonely and hangs out with the cigar-maker and the telegrapher. He hangs a May basket for Nina Harling, which makes him happy. Many nights he walks Frances Harling home and talks to her about his plans for the future. She tells him that her mother Mrs. Harling isn't too angry with Jim. She just doesn't understand why he likes girls like Tiny and Lena. But Frances says that she understands it. She thinks he is more mature than other boys his age. She assures him that her mother will like him after he passes his college exams. Jim claims that if Frances were a boy she would act like him. Frances thinks that Jim sees the hired girls with rose-colored glasses. She calls him a Romantic and asks what his speech is going to be about at graduation. Jim thinks that his oration is good. We don't get to hear any of it, but he assures us of this fact. Mrs. Harling is there listening to it and he looks at her while he delivers the speech. After graduation, Mrs. Harling tells Jim that the speech was great. Later, Jim gets a graduation present from her: a silk umbrella with his name on the handle. After the ceremony, while he is walking home, Jim runs into Lena and Tony and another hired girl named Anna Hansen. Tony congratulates Jim on the speech. Lena wants to know why Jim was so solemn as he gave his speech. Anna also thinks that he did a good job. She says that she always wanted to go to school. Antonia wishes that her father could have been there to hear it. Jim tells her that he dedicated the speech to her father. They share a moment while she cries. Narrator-Jim reflects that he never experienced as touching a moment as that one.

