“She’s got a spirit of her own,” she thought; but Geraldine was only secure of her position and unquestioned in her relation to the girls she was teaching.
“Yes, teacher; and I’ll look over a hymn too if you like, teacher,” said Florence with alacrity.
“A psalm. Grace Elton will show you.”
When the lessons were over the young lady asked questions on them in a clear, steady little voice, which were nicely answered by the girls, and then proceeded to hear the Catechism, and, thinking to be polite to the new-comer and give her an easy piece, asked her her name, to begin with.
Florence was not accustomed to say lessons standing up, nor to say the Catechism at all, and at the first attempt to repeat her long name she went off into a hopeless giggle, and stuffed her pocket-handkerchief into her mouth. Some of the other girls giggled also. Miss Geraldine’s dark eyes gave a little flash.
“When you have done laughing, Florence, I’ll ask you again. Grace, go on.”
Florence did not know the next answer that came to her turn, and it soon became apparent that a great girl of fifteen could not say her Catechism—a fact common enough at Rapley, but unknown at Ashcroft.
She pouted and shook her shoulders; but there was an odd fascination for her in this young, firm little teacher, and when the marks were given at the end of school she anticipated notice for her giggling by saying with a benevolent smile:
“Law, teacher, I’ll say my Catechism next Sunday. I ain’t a-going to give you any trouble.”
Geraldine had never seen anyone in the least like Florence before. Her smiling absence of deference and good-natured patronage amazed her.