They passed down the village, the woman not deigning to notice that she was an object of curiosity, the child shrinking with that sensitive dread of observation, that always haunted her when among strangers. About the centre of the village stood a brick academy, with an open space before it, and surrounded by a succession of wooden verandahs.
Aunt Hannah entered the lower story of this building, where some forty children were assembled under a female teacher, who came forward to receive her visitors.
"This little girl," said aunt Hannah, "we have adopted her. She must come to school."
"What branches do you wish her to study?" inquired the teacher.
"Reading, writing, cyphering, enough to reckon up a store bill, if she should ever have one, and enough of geography to keep her from losing her way in the world."
"Is that all?" said the teacher, "a girl of her age ought to know those things without further teaching."
"Like enough she does, ask her," said aunt Hannah.
The teacher looked at Mary, who smiled, blushed, and after a moment's hesitation, said, modestly,
"I know how to read and write, and a little of the rest."
"Very well, I will examine you presently," said the teacher, "yonder is an empty desk, you can take it."