said. Nora examined the primers, which had been chosen from a list the teachers had made. "That," she replied, "is a promising beginning."
One evening, as they stood near the school gate, Nathaniel spoke of his mother. She had founded the first scholarship before he was old enough to understand why, and after her death he had allowed committees and secretaries to turn her work into paper. "I thought that because the reports were signed, I had fulfilled my duty," he admitted. "It was easier than hearing about children who needed things I had never lacked." Nora rested her hand on the gate. "There is no virtue in guilt that lasts only long enough to make its owner uncomfortable," she said. "But there is value in deciding what to do differently tomorrow." He smiled sadly. "You are not always kind to my pride." "It has survived," she answered.
The summer brought another examination of the school's finances and a difficult decision about Nora's future. Lady Honoria offered to make her the paid director of the practical lessons, with a proper salary and a place on the committee. Nora accepted on the condition that teachers' wages be written into the budget rather than treated as a gift bestowed when wealthy patrons were pleased. Her mother sat in the front row when the appointment was announced, wearing the coat she had once repaired for Lady Honoria. When Nora finished speaking, Mrs. Fenwick wiped her eyes and announced, quite loudly, that her daughter still left sewing needles on the kitchen table.
That autumn, after a school celebration at Westridge House, Nathaniel found Nora on the terrace. The air smelled of damp leaves, and the last roses leaned against the stone wall. She wore the blue gown again. Her mother had repaired the tear with a small spray of hawthorn flowers embroidered over the damaged place, so that the mark remained visible only to those who knew where to look. Nathaniel noticed it immediately. "Your mother has done remarkable work," he said. Nora smiled. "She always does. This time she decided not to conceal the mending. She said a repaired thing need not pretend it was never harmed."
He was silent for a moment, and Nora could see he was trying to choose his words with care. "I have spent much of this year wanting to ask you a question," he said. "But I feared that you might think I mistook gratitude for affection,