“There, now you feel more comfortable, don’t you, my dear?” whispered the busy little woman.
“Oh, yes, and—and—and—please—please I’ll never do so no more.”
Poor Feelier burst into a passionate fit of tearful remorse, sobbing wildly in spite of little Miss Burge’s efforts to calm her.
“Oh! hush, hush, my dear; pray be still.”
“I—I—I used to make faces at you in school,” sobbed Feelier.
“Yes, yes, yes; but hush my dear. You only did it in fun.”
“N-no, I didn’t,” sobbed Feelier; “I did it to make—make the other girls laugh.”
“But hush, pray hush, or you’ll hurt poor Miss Thorne.”
Feelier’s sobs ended in one large gulp, as if by magic, and she lay perfectly still, staring at the other bed.
“Please, Miss Burge,” she whispered, “will you bring some of your roses and put in water by teacher’s pillow?”