"Well, supposing," Chris persisted; "how would the half-fly fly away then?"
"It wouldn't, it couldn't. You see, my darling, it would be dead," the old lady said, becoming flurried.
"But you said it would," Chris said with some perplexity.
"There, there, that will do," she said. "You are a silly little boy to think such a thing. We must get on with your other lessons, for the time is passing."
"Shall I have a holiday now?" he suggested lazily.
"No, no; that would never do," she said. "You had better do some more sums; but on the slate. Miss Baggerley, will you be so kind as to give them to him. That, with a little spelling and a copy, will, I think, be sufficient for to-day;" and the old lady, leaning back in her arm-chair, closed her eyes with an exhausted expression.
"Miss Beggarley," said Chris in a coaxing voice—he never failed thus to distort my name—"may I get on your knee and do my lessons, like I did on Granny's?"
"No, you had better not," I said, hardening my heart. "How do you expect to write well if you sit on my knee?"
"'Cause I know I could," he replied confidently.
"No, no," I said firmly; "we won't try. Come here; you sit on this chair and write this copy. Now show me how well you can write and spell. I know a boy no older than you, and he writes and spells beautifully for his age."