The knob under Genevieve's nerveless fingers clicked sharply, and Miss Hart raised her head with a start.
During the one brief moment that Genevieve gazed into her teacher's startled eyes, wild plans raced through her mind: she would run; she would go to her own desk and leave the papers, then destroy the fateful letter to-morrow; she would walk up and hand the letter to Miss Hart now, and confess that she had read it; she would—
"Why, Genevieve!" cried Miss Hart, a little huskily. "Did you—forget something?"
"No, Miss Hart; yes—well, I mean—it isn't that I forgot exactly. I—I didn't know," she faltered, realizing more than ever the meaning of the letter she had just read, now that the wistful-eyed writer of it sat before her, bearing plain evidence of tears.
"Can I do anything for you?" Miss Hart asked.
Genevieve went, then, straight to the desk. The papers—with the letter—were rolled tightly in one hand.
"No, Miss Hart, thank you; but—isn't there something that—that I can do for—you?" she faltered.
What happened next was, to Genevieve, certainly, most disconcerting. Miss Hart gave one look into Genevieve's eyes, then dropped her face into her hands and burst into tears. At Genevieve's aghast exclamation, however, she raised her head determinedly and began to wipe her eyes.
"There, there, my dear," she smiled brightly, winking off the tears. "That was very foolish and very silly of me, and you must forget all about it. I was a little homesick, I'm afraid, and perhaps a bit blue; and your eyes looked into mine so frankly and honestly, and with such a courageous 'I'll-try-to-help-you' look, that—that—well, you know what I did. But come—let us talk no more of this, my dear! Let us get out of this stifling room, and into the blessed out-of-doors. We'll go into the grove for a little walk. These four walls have been just smothering me all day!"
Genevieve opened wide her eyes.