“Chips,” said Agatha, calling to the flaxen-haired child, “go upstairs to No. 6, and, if Miss Wilson isn’t there, fetch me the Recording Angel.”
The little girl grumbled inarticulately and did not stir.
“Chips,” resumed Agatha, “did you ever wish that you had never been born?”
“Why don’t you go yourself?” said the child pettishly, but evidently alarmed.
“Because,” continued Agatha, ignoring the question, “you shall wish yourself dead and buried under the blackest flag in the coal cellar if you don’t bring me the book before I count sixteen. One—two—”
“Go at once and do as you are told, you disagreeable little thing,” said Gertrude sharply. “How dare you be so disobliging?”
“—nine—ten—eleven—” pursued Agatha.
The child quailed, went out, and presently returned, hugging the Recording Angel in her arms.
“You are a good little darling—when your better qualities are brought out by a judicious application of moral force,” said Agatha, good-humoredly. “Remind me to save the raisins out of my pudding for you to-morrow. Now, Jane, you shall see the entry for which the best-hearted girl in the college is to be expelled. Voila!”
The two girls read and were awestruck; Jane opening her mouth and gasping, Gertrude closing hers and looking very serious.