It was warm in the afternoon. Two of the boys were decidedly bad and were punished. They positively roared. Cynthia spelled, and spelled, and studied—"One and one are two," "one and two are three," and after a while it dawned on her that it was just one more every time. Why, she had known that all the time, only it hadn't been put in a table.
It grew very tiresome after a while. She asked if she couldn't have recess with the big girls, but was sharply refused. In truth the good dame grew very weary herself, and was glad when five o'clock came and she could go out in the garden and recruit her tired nerves.
The stage was stopping at the door. Oh, how glad she was to see Cousin Leverett. He smiled down in the flushed face.
"How did the school go?" he asked.
She hung her head. "I don't like it. I have to be with the little class because I don't know tables, but I learned all the one times. That was easy enough when you came to see into it. But—nine and nine?"
"Eighteen," he answered promptly.
"And you answered it right offhand!" She gave a soft, cheerful laugh. "Oh, do you suppose I shall ever know so much?"
"There was a time when I didn't know it."
"Truly?" She looked incredulous.
"Truly. And I had quite hard work remembering to spell correctly."