“Where to?” said M’liss, her eyes twinkling.
“Anywhere—anywhere, away from here!” responded that deceitful wretch with tragic wildness of demeanor.
“What made you?—bad boy!” said M’liss, with a sudden respect of conventionalities, and a rare touch of tenderness in her tones. “You’d better go back where your vittals are.”
“What are victuals to a wounded spirit?” asked the young man dramatically. He had reached the side of M’liss during this dialogue, and had taken her unresisting hand. He was too wise to notice his victory, however; and drawing Melissa’s note from his pocket, opened it before her.
“Couldn’t you find any paper in the schoolhouse without tearing a leaf out of my memorandum book, Melissa?” he asked.
“It ain’t out of your memorandum book,” responded M’liss fiercely.
“Indeed,” said the master, turning to the lines in pencil; “I thought it was my handwriting.”
M’liss, who had been looking over his shoulder, suddenly seized the paper and snatched it out of his hand.
“It’s father’s writing!” she said, after a pause, in a softer tone.
“Where did you get it, M’liss?”