Carmilla's Teacher

I

‘ Is teacher gone by de school?' asked Carmilla anxiously of the big boy sweeping the steps that led up from the cement walk, where Carmilla stood, to the level of the sunny oblongs of windows in the old-fashioned house of the three Miss Shannons.

The big boy stopped sweeping.

‘Is de green teacher gone?’ pursued Carmilla, referring to Miss Shannon of the green gown.

‘Dunno,’ he answered, looking down on Carmilla reflectively. ‘The brown teacher’s went.'

‘Is de blue one?’

‘Yep, she’s went, too.’

Across the square, from the windows opposite, Marian had just flung impatiently behind her, ‘Hurry up, mamma, and comb my hair—there’s the blue Miss Shannon going.’

At a quarter to eight, five mornings out of the week, the brown Miss Shannon walked west up the square to the Avenue, where the car ran north; at eight o’clock, the blue Miss Shannon walked west up the square to the Avenue and the car going south; and at eightfifteen, the green Miss Shannon walked east past the end of the square to the schoolhouse.

Carmilla herself lived east, over the other side of the school and the cartracks, on which the cars went clanging and banging and whizzing under the school’s east windows, and from which most of the teachers alighted mornings. From this squatty and grimy locality Carmilla escaped, across the strip of asphalt drive, to the cement walk and the steps down which the green Miss Shannon was awaited, to the brilliant plot of grass and new-blown elms of the square, to the red and yellow tulips set out in their bed to welcome the spring. If some whimsical gardener had set Carmilla, in slim green dress and round red-and-yellow hat, down among them, she would have made a flaunting little human tulip. Instead, in her little faded cotton slip, with mop of dark hair over forehead and neck, black eyes big and sad, Carmilla was an appealing small waif of a child as she waited there by the flower-bed for her teacher.

Theresa Steffanelli, now breathlessly accosting the big boy, ‘Is teacher gone by de school?’ was in better harmony with the color-scheme. Her bright-blue sweater over a scarlet skirt, plump pink cheeks under an outstanding crop of dark hair tied with a flaring bow of red ribbon, made a brilliant splotch against the gray of the walk. The splotch became a streak as Dominic appeared panting behind Theresa, in his green sweater banded with red; and Jassamine, following, contributed the yellow of her long, overhanging sweater. A little farther along the walk, Angelo, in startling new green pants (fastened with some uncertainty by safety-pins to his shirt), bore down upon the common goal, and Mary formed a drab tail in her washed-out print gown. As she perched herself on the green Miss Shannon’s lowest step, Mary explained demurely, ‘ I dot a sweat-uh, but I not dot it on now.’ Marian, flying from across the square, in white apron, her bright fluffy curls contrasting with Jassamine’s black tresses slicked back from the parting to the two buttons of coiled pigtails, came in time for the flutter and swirl in the bevy of children, which announced the green Miss Shannon descending the steps.

At the moment, in her green dress, fair hair coiled high on her head, and smiling face, the green Miss Shannon might have been mistaken for spring. The old-fashioned houses of the old-fashioned square were so near the school that she had no more need of a hat this morning than had the Italian women of the neighborhood, or Theresa, Carmilla, and Jassamine. Like a breeze of spring, she blew the bambinos before her with a ‘Now see who can get to the corner first.’

Another bit of brightness came up with the green Miss Shannon from the rear and caught step — ‘de teacher by Room 15,’whose house was around the corner of the square. Snappy black eyes and satiny black hair in buns over her ears, thin beau-catcher curl glued in the middle of her forehead, well-powdered nose, modish one-piece blue taffeta gown above her trim, pointed French-heeled boots, the young Miss O’Callahan seemed to be protesting, ‘Teachers are not going to be frumps any longer.’ Miss O’Callahan was on her second-year salary, but she lived at home, and managed by charge accounts to keep her clothes paid for, and to squeeze out five dollars for her Grade Teachers’ Association—more than some did. She was an intelligent young woman, and twice as good a teacher as she looked.

Walking over from the car on the Avenue, and nearing them from behind, were Miss Fletcher, tall and fair, grammar grade, Miss Marie DeMar, stout and dark, primary, both inconspicuously and economically dressed, and Miss Jarvis, domestic science, well attired. Miss Jarvis was a ‘special,’ and on higher salary. Teachers of domestic science had originally put in more time at Normal School, but now went through in the same time as the elementary teachers, and their superior rank had begun to grind on the elementaries. The elementaries had subsisted on meagre pay until the war, when their unexpected exodus from the classroom brought an alarmed and speedy but cautious increase in their salaries, with more generous raises for the higher-paid groups. It seemed an established idea that they should be the lowest paid in the service.

‘But if the manual-training men get more pay, why should n’t the domestic-science women?’ an apologist might begin.

‘Yes, of course, and the singing, and all the other specials — What I want to know is, what is the matter with the grade teachers? Who works harder than we do?’ an elementary would muster spunk to ask; a query that could not get itself answered, and the thing went on grinding.

‘My kid sister,’ Miss O’Callahan was saying, on their walk through the morning sunshine to the schoolhouse, ‘says she’ll never be a teacher — not on your life. My father wants her to go to Normal, but she says she’s going to business college.’

‘Just what my niece declares,’ joined in Miss Fletcher. ‘She thinks it’s enough to look at me.’

‘I wish I could do anything else,’ the green Miss Shannon threw in wistfully, ‘ but teach school.’

The remark would not have been noticed from another speaker; but the green Miss Shannon, — she of the smiling eyes and cheering word, never ailing or complaining or indignant or critical, — from the reformer’s point of view the most dangerous of optimists!

‘You too?’ the stout, dark teacher said. She was herself not unaware of the irony of things, but temperamentally humorous and profoundly patient.

‘Say, if anything should separate you two from the service,’Miss O’Callahan protested, ‘what’s to become of me, and Miss Polonski, and the rest of us sweet young things? We think we know the game when we come out of Normal, but we can’t stand long before our classes without running to you to ask what’s the next move.’

‘So I’ve observed,’Miss Fletcher rejoined, as they went in at the teachers’ entrance, and on to the office key-board to take down their keys.

Speeding down the hall with her bright troop, the green Miss Shannon espied the diminutive Salvadore Delmonico, contrary to rules, waiting at the door of Room l6. His small body was agitated by an emotion beyond his present expression in English, as he poured out, ‘Teacher — de big boy come — teacher, de big boy he go by de desk — de big boy he swipe all de marbles on you — he runs away — runs down dat way — ’

The marbles! That treasured collection, held in trust. For every marble that went thump, thump, thump on the floor in school-time, custody in that safe repository, the right-hand drawer of teacher’s desk; but at the end of the term, restoration. Now many pairs of big dark eyes of rightful owners will watch the progress of recapture. And the nine cents, ah, the nine cents of Theresa, entrusted to teacher’s care yesterday and forgotten — what of that? And the soul of the big boy — should it not be rescued from such a pitfall?

‘Down dat way,’into the boys’ basement, in pursuit, hurries teacher; gets wind of one Pasquale Pappa, hales him into Room 16 ere the nine o’clock gong strikes. What of the marbles, Pasquale Pappa? What of the nine cents?

Pasquale looks accusingly upon Salvadore.

‘Yes, I was bring de waste-basket last night by de sweepers. I see him,’ pointing at Salvadore, ‘swipe de marble out de teacher’s desk, an’ he give me one an’ I drop it back. I tell him if he do dat, de teacher’ll holler on him.’

‘I wants my mudder,’ screams Salvadore, ‘my mudder, my mudder, my mudder! ’

The game is up. But the marbles, who has the marbles? ’Rafael has de marble.’ — ‘No, teacher, Salvadore give de marble.’ — ‘Who else has the marbles?'

Here they stand in a row — Michael, Tony, Joseph, Rafael, Dominic, Jaspar. — ‘Teacher, Salvadore give de marble.’ — ’Where are they now?’ — Lost, gamed,given,swiped — scattered. And the money, the nine cents?

‘No, teacher, I did n’t rob de moneys on youze. It’s a sin to rob de moneys on de teacher.’ His father Salvadore can deceive, his mother he can hoax, ‘de teacher’ he cannot. ‘Where is the money?’ It is at home hidden in ‘my mudder’s’ sweater pocket. ‘Go home and get it.’ Emanuel, the largest boy in the grade, conducts him.

II

Two new dark little boys come in and present paper slips to teacher. Already she has fifty-three bambinos for the forty-eight seats. A fiction prevails in school-circles (obtained from averages) of forty-eight pupils to a room, and a pleasantry of Forty-two to a room. But there are the elastic small chairs.

‘What is your name? John Scully? That’s an Irish name,’ laughs the green Miss Shannon.

‘Yes, yes,’ says John; for only ‘yes, yes’ can he say.

’But you ’re not Irish,’ the nice teacher jokes.

‘Yes, yes.’

‘You’re Italian.’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘How do you spell it? Ah, “Sculle,”’ reads the green Miss Shannon. ‘Paul Brosseau. You’re a little French boy, are n’t you?”

‘No, ma’am — Catholeek.’

Max brings a note: —

‘DEAR TEACHER,
All of your children are hitting my Maxie on the way home. I want that stopped. I’ll tell the principal. And they make noses on him. I want that stopped. Another thing, they always take his things, and I want that stopped.
Your loving
MRS. ROSENBERG.’

The Italian parents cannot write notes, not so much as excuses for tardiness. The laggards are many. They must be punished; they must learn the sorry fate of the sluggard; they shall not sing with the others; they shall sit in a row on low chairs back of the teacher till the singing is over. ‘They sing at me,’ the culprits complain, and weep. They sing at them, ‘A birdie with a yellow bill,’ and point and shake their forefingers. ‘Ain’t you ’shamed, you sleepy head?’ They sing at them, ‘Tick-tock, tick-tock, clocks are saving,’ and at ‘Then comes school and — don’t—be—late,’ ‘Dey shakes deir fingers on me,’ Anthony says, and weeps more.’

Will he be sitting on this little mourning bench to-morrow? No, he will come early, and stand up by his seat and sing and point and shake his finger at the woeful mites who will be sitting as now he is sitting. The joy of singing shall be his, and the fun of being a make-believe car of the six make-believe trains in the room, seven cars long, and the first child is an engine. Arms touching shoulders in front, imitative feet shuffling, left hand for a whistle, right hand rings the bell, off goes the train: —

Now they are standing very straight, as the green Miss Shannon is standing, right-hand fingers outspread, three fingers stiff’, two curved, left forefinger ready to be the captain: —

They hit the t’s and the n and the k at the end of the words, as the green Miss Shannon shows them. If some do not, they sing it again. It is just as in the phonics lesson, which comes after the singing. The phonics lesson consists of making sounds, after the manner of beasts, birds, and insects which have preceded them up the scale of being, even as the green Miss Shannon makes sounds: sounds of the English tongue, associated with symbols of the English language. A disguised drill, vivified by the green Miss Shannon, carried along with enthusiasm—but interrupted.

Emanuel and Salvadore reappear. The morals lesson is allowed to fit the occasion. Nobody has yet instructed teacher to put the morals lesson at a certain time on the programme. Salvadore brings to teacher a bright new dime. No tears, no nine cents; only a bright new dime. Teacher looks upon the dime, upon Salvadore, upon Emanuel. Emanuel is Jewish, and does not know the Italian words Salvadore talked to his father. Is it that teacher has another time demanded the dime for the yarn used in the weaving of the doll rug, for the paste, for the crayons, what not? Salvadore shall have the dime for his teacher. Ah, that was teacher’s slip. Now Peter shall take back the new dime and make inquiries of the father, and Salvadore shall sit in Room 16 until Peter returns, and shall read his lesson.

Salvadore does not wish to read his lesson. He loves to sing, he loves to draw, he does not love to read. He has lost his book. Phena too has forgotten her book. Dominic has torn his. Jaspar has chewed the corners off his. Concetti’s is very dirty. Carmilla’s is a maze of loose pages, which she carefully keeps in order and reads like a public speaker turning the pages of his manuscript. Teacher has found another book for Salvadore to read from, and Phena may sit with Marian, whose book, carefully covered with brown cambric, is clean and untorn. Teacher looks with bright eyes on Marian, and speaks glad words of her book. But the rest may not ‘make nice their books like teacher says.’ They get them ‘off my big brudder,’ or ‘by de principal,’ and never were they as Marian’s.

‘Yiz can buy dem off de candy woman,’ volunteers Theresa.

‘Yiz! What should you say?’ reminds teacher.

With a little toss of her head, ‘Youze,’ Theresa corrects herself. So continuously does teacher struggle to break the mould of environment.

Rosie finds the picture-lesson page for Salvadore—the picture of many bugs. ‘Who sees a new word? Salvadore?’— ‘Teacher, I know— bug.’ Last year teacher must not tell the new word; the new word was sacred to phonics. This year the principal says teacher must tell the new word. No, the word is not ‘bug.’ It is what bees say. ‘What are bees?’ — ‘They are fairies,’ says Phena, looking at the picture. They have wings. ‘Who has been to the country?’ Tony. Everybody points to Tony. ‘ Tony wuz by de country.’ But neither does Tony know bees from fairies.

So teacher tells and Marian reads. Carmilla listens and reads just as Marian has read. ‘Now read the last sentence, Carmilla.’ Carmilla must read from the top, swiftly, with a little hum, till she comes to it. ‘Do you like to make honey?’ she reads glibly, and looks up to find that teacher’s eyes have the little jokes in them. Like Salvadore, Carmilla cannot fool teacher. Now Salvadore will read: —

‘“Bugs, bugs, little bees. Do you like to fly sunshines? You are busy little bees to make moneys for me. Do you like to make moneys?”’ Money means something to Salvadore, honey does not.

Down falls Jimmie’s marble, thump, thump, thump, rolling on the floor to teacher. Teacher says, ‘Um! Another lovely marble I have for my collection.’ Carmilla sees that teacher looks with bright eyes upon the marble. It must be that teacher likes the beautiful marble. Carmilla has no beautiful marble to give to teacher, but she has the glass pendant she found in the alley, which Jaspar offered to trade for two marbles. The glass pendant is a fine thing to have, to make rainbows by — still, she would like to give teacher the beautiful marbles.

Now comes Peter back with the nine cents for Theresa. The father ‘says like this’ to teacher for Salvadore — ‘Teacher shall close him up in a dark room.’ The suggested punishment not being in accord with modern methods, teacher is wondering what she shall do with Salvadore and with Salvadore’s class. Teacher has asked for kindergarten material for Room 16, to keep busy half the tiny restless folk, while the other tiny restless folk read; but no kindergarten material has come for teacher; for different things has teacher asked in vain. Five rooms use the scissors, and it is not now the turn of Room 16. Salvadore’s class go to the board and make ‘two hills,’which is an n, and ‘three hills,’ which is an m, while the first-reader class read about the ‘Shearing of the Sheep.’

‘Oh, I know a sheep, teacher,’ exclaims Joseph. ‘We got one by our house.'

‘Are you sure you have a sheep, Joseph? ’

‘No, teacher, he got no sheep. He got a dog. I seed it, teacher.’

Jassamine’s reading of the ‘ Ba, ba, Black Sheep’ is a sort of free translation into understandable language; —

Teacher can use the rest of the twenty minutes’ reading period implanting in the minds of the A Class an idea of a ‘master,’ a ‘dame,’ and a ‘lane.’ But after starting this same class in the first lesson of the book, beginning,—

teacher’s enthusiasm must be invincible. One child had indeed indicated a dim, associated notion of a hoe. ‘It’s what you sprinkles water wid, teacher.’ Teacher did not write the book, or adopt it as the standard reader for the schools; teacher’s business is to teach it.

As the C Class do not use the book, their reading lesson, of teacher’s devising, is more flexible. ‘Stand,’teacher says, and shows the word printed on a card. At the first lesson no one moves, and teacher lifts a child to his feet. Then a few have learned and show the other children by actions. ‘Sit,’ ’Run,’‘Jump.’ So they work at the English vocabulary until recess.

The substitute in Room 14, — Beginning First, — an experienced higher-grade teacher, is trying to get her flock into ranks in the hall. The green Miss Shannon goes to her assistance.

‘They can’t understand you,’ the substitute teacher explains, in comic dismay. ‘You have to lift them out of their seats and carry them into the coat-room. Then someone’s hat is lost. “Boo-hoo-hoo. I wants my mudder.” Where is his hat? Oh, where? “Why here’s his hat,” some little smart thing says. Put it on. Then — Well, I’m not coming back here to-morrow.’

The stout, dark teacher, farther up the hall, has come to say a friendly word to the substitute.

‘You should hear our superintendent speak out in meeting,’ she rejoins, and imitates him pompously. ‘“All children are alike susceptible. If our children are not as proficient as in other districts, it is the fault of the teacher.”’

‘I would n’t want better entertainment.’ the substitute comments, ‘than to watch some of these superintendents teach school a while. I should start them in your district.’

They laugh, and being merry, the stout, dark teacher goes on to tell them what her loyal Phena has just now imparted to her. ‘I hearn a kid say youze fat,’ tells Phena. ‘ Youze is n’t fat.’

Their laughter is cut short by the recess bell, and the substitute signals her despair to the green Miss Shannon, on hall duty, as the lines of wriggling, bobbing, evasive bambinos advance upon Room 14. Irrepressible are the bambinos. Twice must teacher speak to Theresa for whispering while teacher is telling the story of‘The Three Bears.’ Carmilla tells the story after teacher, while Theresa whispers.

‘Do you want me to pin this on you?’ teacher reminds Theresa, and shows the big red-paper tongue. Theresa for a little while then does not whisper to Carmilla and Jassamine and Angelo and Peter. But soon again, —

‘Come here, Theresa,’ says teacher. With reluctant steps Theresa complies. There she stands in the corner, with the red tongue pinned on. Yes, before now has the red tongue been wet with tears.

They dramatize the Three Bears. Marian is Golden Locks, Peter is the big ‘fah-der’ bear, Becky is the middlesized ‘mudder’ bear, Dominic is the ‘littlest’ baby bear. They draw the Three Bears. There is writing, spelling, dismissal of the B and C classes, calisthenics, games, sight-reading from the dilapidated sets of books furnished by the Board, — books, pages, parts missing,— doubling up in seats, skipping pupils who draw blanks. — Noon.

Teacher sees the lines out, locks the door, and races for the penny-lunch room. The teachers volunteer to help serve the swarms of children, as at this hour the employees paid by the Board are swamped. Carmilla comes for the bowl of soup, the glass of milk, the sandwich — The pennies to pay for them? That is the green Miss Shannon’s secret. When Carmilla first came to Room 16, she was thinner than now, and whiter. The green Miss Shannon watched, wondered; then one morning Carmilla fainted. Teacher sent quickly for the school doctor. Carmilla was under-nourished, the school doctor said. Teacher brought a bowl of soup from the penny-lunch room. Yes, soup was all the medicine Carmilla needed. The school nurse went to where Carmilla lived — the father dead, the mother all day away at the laundry; in the evening the nurse went and showed Carmilla’s mother how better to prepare the scanty fare. But for the green Miss Shannon and the penny lunch and the flower-bed in the square, little Carmilla —

It was a breathless, spinning noon hour for the green Miss Shannon, stopped short by the gong, watching the lines of children flowing up the stairs and halls and into Room 16 again, closing the door. ‘What have you there in your desk, Tony?’ — ‘Nudding.’ — ‘Yes, teacher, he have. He swipe something off de peddler.’ What should a head of cabbage be doing in Tony Appa’s desk? ‘Where did you get that, Tony?’ — ‘ I buyed it for two cent off de peddler.’ — ‘No, teacher, he never did. We seed him swipe it off de peddler.’ Witnesses go with Tony to restore the cabbage to the peddler, while the room is at work constructing the cardboard house and furniture of the Three Bears.

A bambino comes from the substitute teacher in Room 14, and teacher goes with him, only for a little while. A man, a strange man, opens the door and looks on them with sharp eyes, and goes away. Rosie stands up.

‘Teacher,’ Rosie bursts out as the green Miss Shannon returns, ’a man comes by us and he looks on us.'

‘How did he look?’

‘My God, I don’t know. You better stay in here.’

Teacher ‘looks on Rosie,’but Carmilla does not know what teacher is thinking. She is thinking of the strange things Rosie says, and is remembering about Rosie and the Christmas party. The day of the Christmas party Rosie came to school much too early, and when she saw the green Miss Shannon approaching, ran to her and asked when it would be time for the Christmas party to begin.

‘Not yet. After a while.’

Then at recess Rosie asked again.

‘Not yet. After a while.’

And at noon, and between times, when would it be time for the christmas party to begin?

‘Not yet. After a while.’

More and more incredulous and suspicious of teacher’s assurances Rosie was growing. Time dragged to afternoon recess, lessons going on as usual. It was proper to rebuke and caution teacher as Rosie herself had been rebuked and cautioned; yet with restraint.

‘I’m afraid you lie some, teacher; it’s an awful sin.'

But how should Rosie reinstate herself after the party, which came off after all, in the kindergarten room, with a trimmed tree, and candy and red apples from teacher, and games and singing.

‘O teacher, youze so lovely to us by your party,’ said Rosie; ’just like a mudder.’

‘Yes, just like a mudder,’ agreed Joseph.

‘Yes, teacher,’ Dominic hesitated; ‘but so many childrens and no fah-der?’

III

Again Carmilla does not know. Why is teacher smiling? But she likes to look on teacher when she smiles, and when the little jokes are in her eyes, and upon her green dress. Carmilla is a sort of small moon to teacher’s sun. Carmilla goes on with the construction lesson, cutting and pasting the table on which are to stand the three bowls of broth of the Three Bears.

But this is not all of school, what they have been doing to-day. No — no. Sometimes the superintendent comes. Then they all sit up very straight, just as the green Miss Shannon stands. They do not whisper, not even Theresa. She will certainly have the red tongue pinned upon her if she whispers before the big, prim, sad man who is the superintendent. Sometimes the smart young man in the office — he must be smart because he is the principal — comes in swiftly and goes out swiftly. Sometimes the man who does not wear his coat comes in and looks at the fixture on the wall (which is a thermostat) and goes out again. Sometimes the lady in the pretty dress and beads, — a black one on each side and a green one in the middle, like an eye, three of them on a chain, — comes in briskly and smiles at teacher, and sits in the chair, and the bambinos all stand and sing for teacher, blow out lights with their breath, and step up and dow n the scale and choose songs; and the bead lady tells them how nicely they sing, and talks a minute to teacher, and goes out briskly.

Somet imes, after teacher takes out all the drawings they have done, strings many along the blackboards, and puts many in a pile on her desk, the lady with the gray hair comes in slowly and looks at the drawings, and Carmilla, who is a monitor, and Marian, who is a monitor, and Antonio and Peter pass papers and crayons, and the children draw for teacher, and the lady with the gray hair tells teacher that the drawings are good, and goes out slowly.

Sometimes the young lady in the gym suit looks in, for whom they go to the gym; and the young lady in the gym suit sits and plays at the piano, and for teacher they march and skip and swing on the big swings and rings, as they have practised with teacher for the gym lady; and then with teacher and the gym lady they play the games.

Yes, all of these come sometimes and go sometimes. But teacher always stays. But what Carmilla does not know is that these folk, every one, and the teacher above in the domestic-science kitchen, and the teacher below in the manual-training shop, and the teachers three blocks off in the Mann Technical High School, are all much more important and dignified figures than her teacher, with much more important and dignified salaries.

It is true that, in the meetings of teachers, where Carmilla does not go, there is talk — admirable talk — of teacher’s service and devotion and self-sacrifice and indispensability; and the big, prim, sad man who is the superintendent says that the only part anyone else has in the system is to help teacher. But the stout dark primary teacher and the tall fair grammar teacher and the green Miss Shannon, who no longer care for words, and the young Miss O’Callahan and Miss Polonski, who never will care for words, reflect that they who would help should ask. not always tell, the doers what to do, and they question why teacher’s must always be the lowest place. Carmilla does not know that the green Miss Shannon, and the blessed ones like her, are growing rarer and rarer. She is conscious in her small soul, as are the simple foreign folk about her, that the one who knows her, and who is her light and hope, is her teacher — Carmilla’s teacher.

On the way home with teacher, across the strip of asphalt drive, along the cement walk toward the tulip-bed, Carmilla opens her little grimy fist, disclosing the two bright glass marbles traded by Jaspar for the pendant that makes rainbows. Wriggly coils of colors inside the crystal spheres, tiny rainbows imprisoned, the marbles wink up at Carmilla. Almost does the little fist close again on their shimmer.

‘Here, teacher. Here’s two marbles for you.’

‘O Carmilla — for me! Thank you, dear. Um, two such nice marbles.’ The little jokes are in teacher’s eyes. ‘But you know Miss Shannon cannot have any marbles except those that go thump, thump, thump — ’ Now the little jokes are in Carmilla’s eyes, too. ‘You keep them, Carmilla. Mind you hold tight.’ She bends down and closes the little fist over the gleaming bits. There is a sweet and tender light in the eyes of Carmilla’s teacher.