"Pooh! I reckon it would take considerable to make me think of any teacher as young," retorted Genevieve, with emphasis.
"All right; but—aren't you coming out, later, for a walk or—or something?" asked Harold, a little anxiously, as they reached the Kennedy driveway.
She shook her head.
"No, little boy," she answered, with mock cheerfulness. "I'm going to practise, then I'm going to study my algebra, then I'm going to study my Latin, then I'm going to study my French, then I'm going to study my English history, then—"
"Good-by!" laughed Harold, clapping his hands to his ears, and hurrying away.
Unhesitating as was Genevieve's assertion of her intentions, those intentions were not carried out, even to the practising, first on the list; for, in putting down her books, Genevieve dropped some loose papers to the floor. The papers were some that had that day been returned by Miss Hart; and, as the girl gathered them up now, a sheet of note paper, covered with handwriting entirely different from her own, attracted her attention.
She recognized the writing at once as that of Miss Hart, and she supposed at first that the paper must contain some special suggestions or criticisms in regard to her own work. With a quick frown, therefore, she began to read it.
She had not read five lines before she knew that the paper did not contain criticism or suggestions. But so dazed, so surprised, and so absorbed was she, by that time, that she quite forgot that she was reading something most certainly never meant for her eyes to see.
The paper was evidently the second sheet of a letter. The writing—fine, but plain—began close to the top of the first page, in what was apparently the middle of a sentence.
"speak freely, I am sure.