“It was running along the top of a—a desk. It must have been cold or something, for it didn’t run fast and didn’t seem a bit afraid. I put my handkerchief over it and picked it up quite easily.”
“You are going to school tomorrow, of course,” said Betsy.
“Oh yes.”
“And you will tell Miss Jewett that you didn’t kick up a fuss on purpose.”
“Maybe so,”—Elizabeth still had a remnant of hurt feelings. “She may not believe me if I do tell her.”
“Oh, Elizabeth, she must. She wouldn’t be so mean. When you love her so much I don’t see how you can think she could be so mean.”
“She loved me so much and yet she thought I could be mean,” replied Elizabeth, still on the defensive. “I was hurt to the very core of my being, Betsy, and there is no balm for my wounded heart.”
Just here the family appeared and the conversation ceased. Betsy was quite at home here, and was never treated as company. She now began taking some things from a chair that she might draw it up to the table. As she removed some books, Bert’s lunch box clattered to the floor. Betsy picked it up and saw that there were queer holes in the bottom and that a cooky, which looked as if a mouse had nibbled it, had fallen out. Quick as a flash it came over her that Bert was responsible for the mouse’s appearance in the schoolroom, but she said nothing about it, although she thought: “That is just like Elizabeth; she wouldn’t tell for fear Bert would be found out.”
She felt that she had the key to the whole situation and made up her mind that Miss Jewett should know.
The opportunity for telling was soon afforded her, for when she reached home there sat Miss Jewett. “Oh,” exclaimed Betsy, “were you here to supper, Miss Jewett?”