There was no answer.
“Gypsy.”
There came a faint “Yes’m” from behind the desk-cover. Miss Melville laid down her pencil, closed her own desk, and came and sat down on the bench beside Gypsy.
“I wonder if you are as sorry as I am,” she said, simply.
Something very bright glittered on Gypsy’s lashes, and two great drops stood on her hot cheeks.
“I don’t see what possessed me!” she said, vehemently. “Why don’t you turn me out of school?”
“I did not think you could willingly try to make me trouble,” continued Miss Melville, without noticing the last remark.
The two great drops rolled slowly down Gypsy’s cheeks, and into her mouth. She swallowed them with a gulp, and brushed her hand, angrily, across her eyes. Gypsy very seldom cried, but I fancy she came pretty near it on that occasion.
“Miss Melville,” she said, with an earnestness that was comical, in spite of itself; “I wish you’d please to scold me. I should feel a great deal better.”
“Scoldings won’t do you much good,” said Miss Melville, with a sad smile; “you must cure your own faults, Gypsy. Nobody else can do it for you.”