“I—I——”
Nancy had already heard the motor get under way. She knew that the boy and his friends were now out of hearing, or reach.
“Aren’t these lilies pretty?” she asked, holding out the flowers as a peace-offering to Miss Trigg.
“What?” screamed the teacher, getting up nimbly, and backing away from the mud-bedaubed figure of the girl. “Your feet are wet! Did—did you dare get into such a mess, just to get those—those weeds?”
Nancy nodded. It was true. Her bedrabblement had been the forerunner of the gift of flowers from the boy.
“Well! of all things!” gasped Miss Trigg.
“I—I believe you’ve taken leave of your senses. Why—why, whatever will people think of you, going home? We—we can’t ride in the car. They wouldn’t let you get on. And I’d be ashamed to be seen with you.”
“Oh! I’m sorry, Miss Trigg,” murmured Nancy.
“Being sorry won’t take the mud off that dress—or bring a new pair of stockings—or clean those boots. We’ve got to have a cab—a closed cab. I wouldn’t go home with you in anything else.”
“I—I’ll go home alone, Miss Trigg,” said the contrite girl.