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Quantitative Data Analysis for
Language Assessment Volume II
Typeset in Galliard
by Cenveo® Publisher Services
Introduction 1
VAHID ARYADOUST AND MICHELLE RAQUEL
SECTION I
Advanced item response theory (IRT) models
in language assessment 13
SECTION II
Advanced statistical methods in language assessment 99
SECTION III
Nature-inspired data-mining methods
in language assessment 191
Index 234
Figures
We hope that the readers will find the volumes useful in their research and
pedagogy.
By William A. Stimpson
CHAPTER XVIII
In the Hour of Darkness
“N o sign yet?”
“No sign.” Margot’s tone was almost hopeless. Day after day,
many times each day, she had climbed the pine-tree flagstaff and
peered into the distance. Not once had anything been visible, save
that wide stretch of forest and the shining lake.
“Suppose you cross again, to Old Joe’s. He might be back by this
time. I’ll fix you a bite of dinner, and you better, maybe—”
The girl shook her head and clasped her arms about old Angelique’s
neck. Then the long repressed grief burst forth in dry sobs that
shook them both, and pierced the housekeeper’s faithful heart with a
pain beyond endurance.
“Pst! pouf! Hush, sweetheart, hush! ’Tis nought. A few days more,
and the master will be well. A few days more, and Pierre will come.
Ah! but I had my hands about his ears this minute. That would teach
him—yes—to turn his back on duty—him. The ingrate! Well, what
the Lord sends the body must bear, and if the broken glass—”
Margot lifted her head, shook back her hair, and smiled wanly. The
veriest ghost of her old smile it was, yet, even such, a delight to the
other’s eyes.
“Good. That’s right. Rouse up. There’s a wing of a fowl in the
cupboard, left from the master’s broth—”
“Angel, he didn’t touch it, to-day. Not even touch it.”
“’Tis naught. When the fever is on the appetite is gone. Will be all
right once that is over.”
“But, will it be over? Day after day, just the same. Always that
tossing to and fro, the queer, jumbled talk, the growing thinner—all
of the dreadful signs of how he suffers. Angelique, if I could bear it
for him. I am so young and strong and worth nothing to this world,
while he’s so wise and good. Everybody who ever knew him must be
the better for Uncle Hughie, Angelique.”
“’Tis truth. For that, the good God will spare him to us. Of that be
sure.”
“But I pray and pray and pray, and there comes no answer. He is
never any better. You know that. You can’t deny it. Always before,
when I have prayed, the answer has come swift and sure; but now
—”
“Take care, Margot. ’Tis not for us to judge the Lord’s strange ways.
Else were not you and me and the master shut up alone on this
island, with no doctor near, and only our two selves to keep the
dumb things in comfort. Though, as for dumbness, hark yonder
beast!”
“Reynard! Oh! I forgot. I shut him up because he would hang
around the house and watch your poor chickens. If he’d stay in his
own forest, now, I would be so glad. Yet I love him—”
“Aye, and he loves you. Be thankful. Even a beastie’s love is of God’s
sending. Go feed him. Here—the wing you’ll not eat yourself.”
They were dark days now on the once sunny Island of Peace.
That day when Mr. Dutton had said, “Your father is still alive,”
seemed now to Margot, looking back, as one of such experiences as
change a whole life. Up till that morning she had been a thoughtless,
unreflecting child, but the utterance of those fateful words altered
everything.
Amazement, unbelief of what her ears told her, indignation that she
had been so long deceived, as she put it, were swiftly followed by a
dreadful fear. Even while he spoke, the woodlander’s figure swayed
and trembled, the hoe-handle on which he rested wavered and fell,
and he, too, would have fallen had not the girl’s arms caught and
eased his sudden sinking in the furrow he had worked. Her shrill cry
of alarm had reached Angelique, always alert for trouble and then
more than ever, and had brought her swiftly to the field. Between
them they had carried the now unconscious man within and laid him
on his bed. He had never risen from it since; nor, in her heart, did
Angelique believe he ever would, though she so stoutly asserted to
the contrary before Margot.
“We have changed places, Angelique, dear,” the child often said. “It
used to be you who was always croaking and looking for trouble.
Now you see only brightness.”
“Well, good sooth. ’Tis a long lane has no turnin’, and better late nor
never. Sometimes ’tis well to say, ‘Stay, good trouble, lest worser
comes,’ eh? But things’ll mend. They must. Now, run and climb the
tree. It might be this ver’ minute that wretch, Pierre, was on his way
across the lake. Pouf! but he’ll stir his lazy bones, once he touches
this shore! Yes, yes, indeed. Run and hail him, maybe.”
So Margot had gone, again and again, and had returned to sit beside
her uncle’s bed, anxious and watchful.
Often, also, she had paddled across the narrows and made her way
swiftly to a little clearing on her uncle’s land, where, among giant
trees, old Joseph Wills, the Indian guide, and faithful friend of all on
Peace Island, made one of his homes. Once Mr. Dutton had nursed
this red man through a dangerous illness, and had kept him in his
old home for many weeks thereafter. He would have been the very
nurse they now needed, in their turn, could he have been found. But
his cabin was closed, and on its doorway, under the family sign-
picture of a turtle on a rock, he had printed, in dialect, what signified
his departure for a long hunting trip.
Now, as Angelique advised, she resolved to try once more; and,
hurrying to the shore, pushed her canoe into the water and paddled
swiftly away. She had taken the neglected Reynard with her, and
Tom had invited himself to be a party of the trip; and in the odd but
sympathetic companionship Margot’s spirits rose again.
“It must be as Angelique says. The long lane will turn. Why have I
been so easily discouraged? I never saw my precious uncle ill before,
and that is why I have been so frightened. I suppose anybody gets
thin and says things when there is fever. But he’s troubled about
something. He wants to do something that neither of us understand.
Unless—oh! I believe I do understand. My head is clearer out here
on the water, and I know, I know! It is just about the time of year
when he goes away on those long trips of his. And we’ve been so
anxious we never remembered. That’s it. Surely it is. Then, of
course, Joe will be back now or soon. He always stays on the island
when uncle goes, and he’ll remember. Oh! I’m brighter already, and
I guess, I believe, it is as Angelique claims—God won’t take away so
good a man as uncle and leave me alone. Though I am not alone. I
have a father! I have a father somewhere, if I only knew—all in good
time—and I’m growing gladder and gladder every minute.”
She could even sing to the stroke of her paddle, and she skimmed
the water with increasing speed. Whatever the reason for her
growing cheerfulness, whether the reaction of youth or a prescience
of happiness to come, the result was the same; she reached the
further shore flushed and eager-eyed, more like the old Margot than
she had been for many days.
“Oh! he’s there. He is at home. There is smoke coming out of the
chimney. Joseph! Oh, Joseph! Joseph!”
She did not even stop to take care of her canoe, but left it to drift
whither it would. Nothing mattered, Joseph was at home. He had
canoes galore, and he was help indeed.
She was quite right. The old man came to his doorway and waited
her arrival with apparent indifference, though surely no human heart
could have been unmoved by such unfeigned delight. Catching his
unresponsive hands in hers, she cried:
“Come at once, Joseph! At once.”
“Does not the master trust his friend? It is the time to come.
Therefore, I am here.”
“Of course. I just thought about that. But, Joseph, the master is ill.
He knows nothing any more. If he ever needed you, he needs you
doubly now. Come, come at once.”
Then, indeed, though there was little outward expression of it, was
old Joseph moved. He stopped for nothing, but leaving his fire
burning on the hearth and his supper cooking before it, went out
and closed the door. Even Margot’s nimble feet had ado to keep pace
with his long strides, and she had to spring before him to prevent his
pushing off without her.
“No, no. I’m going with you. Here—I’ll tow my own boat, with Tom
and Reynard—don’t you squabble, pets—but I’ll paddle no more
while you’re here to do it for me.”
Joseph did not answer, but he allowed her to seat herself where she
pleased, and with one strong movement sent his big birch a long
distance over the water.
Margot had never made the passage so swiftly, but the motion
suited her exactly; and she leaped ashore almost before it was
reached, to speed up the hill and call out to Angelique wherever she
might be:
“All is well! All will now be well—Joseph has come.”
The Indian reached the house but just behind her and acknowledged
Angelique’s greeting with a sort of grunt; yet he paused not at all to
ask the way or if he might enter the master’s room, passing directly
into it as if by right.
Margot followed him, cautioning, with finger on lip, anxious lest her
patient should be shocked and harmed by the too-sudden
appearance of the visitor.
Then, and only then, when her beloved child was safely out of sight,
did Angelique throw her apron over her head and give her own
despairing tears free vent. She was spent and very weary; but help
had come; and in the revulsion of that relief nature gave way. Her
tears ceased, her breath came heavily, and the poor woman slept,
the first refreshing slumber of an unmeasured time.
When she waked, at length, Joseph was crossing the room. The fire
had died out, twilight was falling, she was conscious of duties left
undone. Yet there was light enough left for her to scan the Indian’s
impassive face with keen intensity; and though he turned neither to
the right nor left, but went out with no word or gesture to satisfy her
craving, she felt that she had had her answer.
“Unless a miracle is wrought, my master is doomed. Oh, the broken
glass—the broken glass!”
CHAPTER XIX
THE LETTER
F rom the moment of his entrance to the sick room, old Joe
assumed all charge of it, and with scant courtesy banished from
it both Angelique and Margot.
“But he is mine, my own precious uncle. Joe has no right to keep me
out!” protested Margot, vehemently.
Angelique was wiser. “In his own way, among his own folks, that
Indian good doctor. Leave him be. Yes. If my master can be save’,
Joe Wills’ll save him. That’s as God plans; but if I hadn’t broke—”
“Angelique! Don’t you ever, ever let me hear that dreadful talk again.
I can’t bear it. I don’t believe it. I won’t hear it. I will not. Do you
suppose that our dear Lord is—will—”
She could not finish her sentence and Angelique was frightened by
the intensity of the girl’s excitement. Was she, too, growing feverish
and ill? But Margot’s outburst had worked off some of her own
uncomprehended terror, and she grew calm again. Though it had not
been put into so many words, she knew both from Angelique’s and
Joseph’s manner that they anticipated but one end to her guardian’s
illness. She had never seen death, except among the birds and
beasts of the forest, and even then it had been horrible to her; and
that this should come into her own happy home was unbearable.
Then she reflected. Hugh Dutton’s example had been her instruction,
and she had never seen him idle. At times when he seemed most so,
sitting among his books, or gazing silently into the fire, his brain had
been active over some problem that perplexed or interested him.
“Never hasting, never wasting” time, nor thought, nor any energy of
life. That was his rule, and she would make it hers.
“I can, at least, make things more comfortable out-of-doors.
Angelique has let even Snowfoot suffer, sometimes, for want of the
grooming and care she’s always had. The poultry, too, and the poor
garden. I’m glad I’m strong enough to rake and hoe, even if I
couldn’t lift Uncle as Joe does.”
Her industry brought its own reward. Things outside the house took
on a more natural aspect. The weeds were cleared away, and both
vegetables and flowers lifted their heads more cheerfully. Snowfoot
showed the benefit of the attention she received, and the forgotten
family in the Hollow chattered and gamboled in delight at the
reappearance among them of their indulgent mistress. Margot
herself grew lighter of heart and more positive that, after all, things
would end well.
“You see, Angelique dismal, we might as well take that broken glass
sign to mean good things as evil; that uncle will soon be up and
around again, Pierre be at home; and the ‘specimen’ from the old
cave prove copper or something just as rich, and—everybody be as
happy as a king.”
Angelique grunted her disbelief, but was thankful for the other’s
lighter mood.
“Well, then, if you’ve so much time and strength to spare, go yonder
and redde up the room that Adrian left so untidy. Where he never
should have been, had I my own way, but one never has that in this
world; hey, no. Indeed, no. Ever’thin’ goes contrary, else I’d have
cleared away all trace long sin’. Yes, indeed, yes.”
“Well, he is gone. There’s no need to abuse him, even if he did not
have the decency to say good-by. Though, I suppose it was my
uncle put a stop to that. What Uncle has to do he does at once.
There’s never any hesitation about Uncle. But I wish—I wish—
Angelique Ricord, do you know something? Do you know all the
history of this family?”
“Why should I not, eh?” demanded the woman, indignantly. “Is it
not my own family, yes? What is Pierre but one son? I love him, oh,
yes! But—”
“WHERE IS MY FATHER?”
“You adore him, bad and trying as he is. But there is something you
must tell me, if you know it. Maybe you do not. I did not, till that
awful morning when he was taken ill. But that very minute he told
me what I had never dreamed. I was angry; for a moment I almost
hated him because he had deceived me, though afterward I knew
that he had done it for the best and would tell me why when he
could. So I’ve tried to trust him just the same and be patient. But—
he may never be able—and I must know. Angelique, where is my
father?”
The housekeeper was so startled that she dropped the plate she was
wiping and broke it. Yet even at that fresh omen of disaster she
could not remove her gaze from the girl’s face nor banish the dismay
of her own.
“He told—you—that—that—”
“That my father is still alive. He would, I think, have told me more;
all that there may be yet to tell, if he had not so suddenly been
stricken. Where is my father?”
“Oh, child, child! Don’t ask me. It is not for me—”
“If Uncle cannot and you can, and there is no other person,
Angelique—you must!”
“This much, then. It is in a far, far away city, or town, or place, he
lives. I know not, I. This much I know: he is good, a ver’ good man.
And he have enemies. Yes. They have done him much harm. Some
day, in many years, maybe, when you have grown a woman, old like
me, he will come to Peace Island and forget. That is why we wait.
That is why the master goes, once each summer, on the long, long
trip. When Joseph comes, and the bad Pierre to stay. I, too, wait to
see him, though I never have. And when he comes, we must be ver’
tender, me and you, for people who have been done wrong to, they
—they—pouf! ’Twas anger I was that the master could put the evil-
come into that room, yes.”
“Angelique! Is that my father’s room? Is it? Is that why there are the
very best things in it? And that wonderful picture? And the fresh
suits and clothing? Is it?”
Angelique slowly nodded. She had been amazed to find that Margot
knew thus much of a long-withheld history, and saw no harm in
adding these few facts. The real secret, the heart of the matter—
that was not yet. Meanwhile, let the child accustom herself to the
new ideas, and so be prepared for what she must certainly and
further learn, should the master’s illness be a fatal one.
“Oh, then, hear me. That room shall always now be mine to care for.
I haven’t liked the housewifery, not at all. But if I have a father and I
can do things for him—that alters everything. Oh! you can’t mean
that it will be so long before he comes. You must have been jesting.
If he knew Uncle was ill he would come at once, wouldn’t he? He
would, I know.”
Poor Angelique turned her face away to hide its curious expression,
but in her new interest concerning the “friend’s room,” as it had
always been called, Margot did not notice this. She was all
eagerness and loving excitement.
“To think that I have a father who may come, at any minute, for he
might, Angelique, you know that, and not be ready for him. Your
best and newest broom, please, and the softest dusters. That room
shall, indeed, be ‘redded’—though uncle says nobody but a few
people like you ever use that word, nowadays—better than anybody
else could do it. Just hurry, please, I must begin. I must begin right
away.”
She trembled so that she could hardly braid and pin up her long hair
out of the way, and her face had regained more than its old-time
color. She was content to let all that was still a mystery remain for
the present. She had enough to think about and enjoy.
Angelique brought the things that would be needed and, for once,
forebore advice. Let love teach the child—she had nought to say. In
any case, she could not have seen the dust, herself, for her dark
eyes were misty with tears, and her thoughts on matters wholly
foreign to household cares.
Margot opened the windows and began to dust the various articles
which could be set out in the wide passage, and did not come round
to the heavy dresser for some moments. As she did so finally, her
glance flew instantly to a bulky parcel, wrapped in sheets of white
birch bark, and bearing her own name, in Adrian’s handwriting.
“Why, he did remember me, then!” she cried, delightedly, tearing the
package open. “Pictures! the very ones I liked the best. Xanthippé
and Socrates, and oh! that’s Reynard. Reynard, ready to speak. The
splendid, beautiful creature; and the splendid, generous boy, to have
given it. He called it his ‘masterpiece,’ and, indeed, it was by far the
best he ever did here. Harmony Hollow—but that’s not so fine.
However, he meant to make it like, and—why, here’s a note! Why
didn’t I come in here before? Why didn’t I think he would do
something like this? Forgive me, Adrian, wherever you are, for
misjudging you so. I’m sorry Uncle didn’t like you, and sorry—for lots
of things. But I’m glad—glad you weren’t so rude and mean as I
believed. If I ever see you, I’ll tell you so. Now, I’ll put these in my
own room and then get to work again. This room you left so messed
shall be as spotless as a snowflake before I’ve done with it.”
For hours she labored there—brushing, renovating, polishing; and
when all was finished she called Angelique to see and criticise—if
she could. But she could not; and she, too, had something now of
vital importance to impart.
“It is beautiful’ done, yes, yes. I couldn’t do it more clean myself, I,
Angelique, no. But, ma p’tite I hear, hear, and be calm! The master
is himself! The master has awoke, yes, and is askin’ for his child.
True, true. Old Joe, he says, ‘Come! quick, soft, no cry, no laugh,
just listen.’ Yes. Oh, now all will be well!”
Margot almost hushed her very breathing. Her uncle awake, sane,
asking for her. Her face was radiant, flushed, eager, a face to
brighten the gloom of any sick room, however dark.
But this one was not dark. Joe knew his patient’s fancies. He had
forgotten none. One of them was the sunshine and fresh air; and
though in his heart he believed that these two things did a world of
harm, and that the ill-ventilated and ill-lighted cabins of his own
people were more conducive to recovery, he opposed nothing which
the master desired. He had experimented, at first, but finding a
close room aggravated Mr. Dutton’s fever, reasoned that it was too
late to break up the foolish habits of a man’s lifetime; and as the
woodlander had lived in the sunlight, so he would better die in it,
and easier.
If she had been a trained nurse, Margot could not have entered her
uncle’s presence more quietly, though it seemed to her that he must
hear the happy beating of her heart and how her breath came fast
and short. He was almost too weak to speak at all, but there was all
the old love, and more, in his whispered greeting.
“My precious child!”
“Yes, Uncle. And such a happy child because you are better.”
She caught his hand and covered it with kisses, but softly, oh! so
softly, and he smiled the rare, sweet smile that she had feared she’d
never see again. Then he looked past her to Angelique, in the
doorway, and his eyes roved toward his desk in the corner. A little
fanciful desk that held only his most sacred belongings and had been
Margot’s mother’s. It was to be hers, some day, but not till he had
done with it, and she had never cared to own it, since doing so
meant that he could no longer use it. Now she watched him and
Angelique wonderingly.
For the woman knew exactly what was required. Without question or
hesitation, she answered the command of his eyes by crossing to
the desk and opening it with a key she took from her own pocket.
Then she lifted a letter from an inner drawer and gave it into his thin
fingers.
“Well done, good Angelique. Margot—the letter—is yours.”
“Mine? I am to read it? Now? Here?”
“No, no. No, no, indeed! Would you tire the master with the rustlin’
of paper? Take it, else. Not here, where ever’thin’ must be still as
still.”
Mr. Dutton’s eyes closed. Angelique knew that she had spoken for
him, and that the disclosure which that letter would make should be
faced in solitude.
“Is she right, Uncle, dearest? Shall I take it away to read?”
His eyes assented, and the tender, reassuring pressure of his hand.
“Then I’m going to your own mountain top with it. To think of having
a letter from you, right here, at home! Why, I can hardly wait! I’m so
thankful to you for it, and so thankful to God that you are getting
well. That you will be soon; and then—why, then—we’ll go a-
fishing!”
A spasm of pain crossed the sick man’s wasted features, and poor
Angelique fled the place, forgetful of her own caution to “be still as
still,” and with her own dark face convulsed with grief for the grief
which the letter would bring to her idolized Margot.
But the girl had already gone away up the slope, faster and faster.
Surely, a letter from nobody but her uncle, and at such a solemn
time, must concern but one subject—her father. Now she would
know all, and her happiness should have no limit.
But it was nightfall when she, at last, came down from the
mountain, and though there were no signs of tears upon her face,
neither was there any happiness in it.
[TO BE CONTINUED]
—Longfellow.
STATE FLOWERS
The largest bell in the world is the great bell at Moscow, at the foot
of the Kremlin. Its circumference is nearly 68 feet, and its height
more than 21 feet. It is 23 inches thick in its stoutest part, and
weighs 433,722 pounds. It has never been hung.
THE FLOWERLESS PLANTS
Fungi
While not so abundant as lichens, the fungi are well known
everywhere. We cannot claim, as for the lichens, that they are
harmless, for many are a virulent poison: others have a disgusting
odor, and nearly all are dangerous in their decay. On the other hand,
many of them are a useful, delicious food, and nearly all are
beautiful when first developed. Their variety, also, is very fascinating.
INDEPENDENCE