The conductor could not change the five-dollar goldpiece and said she didn’t need to pay. It was a wonderful thing having money and going into the world by yourself. Everybody smiled at her; a man gave her a chocolate bar, another man told her where the Courier office could be found; in fact, the world was filled with marvelous strangers all devoted to you, who would take your part against your relations on any occasion. Marcia looked out the window, passing the steel mills and Mrs. Jane’s house, and fancied she saw Mrs. Jane herself sweeping off the front stoop, with a handkerchief tied around her curlers. She waved her hand and it really was Mrs. Jane but she looked up blankly at the streetcar, not recognizing Marcia in the white dress. Marcia got off at the Square, as the man had directed, and there was the little Courier office. It was not open yet, and Mr. Andrews was not likely to be in for some time, the janitor said, because the paper came out the day before and the rest of the week Mr. Andrews took it easy. Marcia stood in the hallway waiting, however, and murmuring “The Raven” to herself over and over, to insure herself against stage fright. It was nearly ten o’clock when a Ford drew up and Mr. Andrews arrived. He was a gloomy-looking, gray-complexioned little man with an unexpected little potbelly which he patted constantly as if he feared it might slip away. His suit seemed wrinkled and a size too large, wrinkling around his ankles till he hitched up his belt. He seemed uneasily conscious of his appearance, for he looked around pugnaciously the minute he got out of the car, ready to face down any criticism. Seeing only Marcia, he got out his keys and swung them around uncertainly.

“I can’t come to the exercises, but I’ve got my piece and I came to speak it for the judges before the exercises,” Marcia said. “It says you get a certificate and the prizewinner gets ten dollars. Here’s my Lesterville medal.”

Mr. Andrews was baffled by this, to the extent of taking off his shapeless gray hat and running his hand over his bald head. He took his swivel chair at his desk and frowned at Marcia.

“I guess since you made the trip specially I could give you a certificate,” he said. “No need to speak the piece though. Not for me.”

“Oh, yes, I have to,” Marcia hastened to correct him. “It says here in the rules that you have to be heard by the judges and wear a white dress and white shoes before you can get the certificate. I’ll begin.”

Mr. Andrews shook his head uneasily and opened his mouth about to protest once more, but Marcia had firmly planted herself before him. The janitor came in and began sweeping around the musty shadows behind the file case, and Mr. Andrews looked hopefully at Marcia to see if this interruption would distract her, but she was sailing into “The Raven” in her best platform manner, waving her right hand over this word, pointing upward at that, and lowering her voice to a croak on the “Quoth the raven, nevermore.” Mr. Andrews fixed his eyes steadily on the back of his hand, which he had placed over his knee so that he missed the best part of the expressions and gestures. At the end of every stanza he made a motion to get up, then relaxed despondently as Marcia sailed briskly on. She didn’t forget a word or a gesture, humping her shoulders and ducking her head like a raven on the last phrase. The janitor stopped sweeping and applauded briefly at the end of the piece, while Marcia stood before Mr. Andrews with her hand outstretched for the certificate.