"Well, there you are," your father says, interrupting your concentration by dropping a stack of books onto the chaste cherry table. You greet him with a quizzical smile as he squares the corners of the stack and walks over to where you sit at your writing stand.

"Thank you, Father," you say, rising to your feet to examine the book titles.

"Just don't read them, Emily—joggles the mind, you know," he admonishes, and exits your bedroom as quietly as he entered. You look up in an attempt to discern the meaning of his cryptic remark, but miss his parting facial expression; Father is fond of saying he lives on an island.

You sigh deeply as you examine the books more closely. Not surprising-- Christian theological texts all: Miss Lyon must have spoken with Father about the profession of faith. You will return to these texts later; what you really need right now is the geometry book you left in your dormitory at Mt. Holyoke. Miss Lyon—who already considers you one of the stalwart "No-hopers"—will probably not accept bronchitis as an exception and instead will give you a black mark, for you have known about tomorrow's exam since before you fell ill.

Turn to page 2.