"Isn't it nicer to read well—to do your best? Think—how dear mummie out in Africa will want to hear that her little girl is getting on. Wouldn't she be sorry to hear about to-day?"
"I—don't—know," whispered Ivy.
"I think you do know. And, Ivy pet, there is Someone else, too, Who is grieved when His little lambs give way to a naughty spirit. Don't you think our dear Lord Jesus wants His little Ivy to be good? I am quite sure He does."
Ivy sighed afresh. Miss Anne kissed her, and put her down.
"Now we are going for a walk," she said; "and we are going to forget about naughty ways and silly mistakes. To-morrow, I hope things will be quite different. We'll make a new start, and Ivy will do her very best."
When the morrow came, Ivy really did do her best, and she never once said "tac" for "cat."
And for some days lessons went beautifully.
And then, all at once, with no rhyme or reason—which was the more odd, as she commonly seemed such a reasonable little girl—all at once she started off again after the same fashion, and nothing would stop it.
For three mornings she persevered, always saying "tac" for "cat," and holding her little head stiffly up, and pursing her lips together, and refusing to be good.
Miss Anne began to think there would be nothing for it but to put the little girl to bed, as a punishment for her obstinacy. And, just as she was considering this, on the third morning, in walked Chris, with a note from the Vicar.