She could think of no other plan, and was drearily going on with her work, when there came a loud tap from one of the lower classes, presided over at that time by Feelier Potts, and followed by a howl.
“What is that?”
“Please, teacher, Feely Potts hit me over the head with a book.”
“Please, teacher, I kep’ on telling her you’d got a bad headache, teacher, and told her to be quiet, and she would keep on making a noise, and—and—and I think I did box her with the Testament, teacher.”
“But you know, Ophelia how strictly I have forbidden any monitor to touch one of her class.”
“Yes, please, teacher; and I wouldn’t have touched her now, only I knew you’d got such a bad headache, and she would be so tiresome I felt as if I could knock her head right off.”
“Ophelia!” exclaimed Hazel, as she felt ready to smile at what was evidently a maternal expression.
“Please, teacher, I won’t do so no more.”
“Then go to your class. I shall trust you, mind. You have given me your word.”
“Yes, teacher,” cried the girl eagerly; “and is your head better, please, teacher!”