“Indeed, Miss! are you supposed to rattle away like that about matters entirely foreign to your lessons, on the way to class room?” demanded the teacher.
“Oh, indeed, Miss Carrington,” exclaimed the contrite Bobby (she always was contrite when caught in a fault, for all her sauciness and lightness arose from thoughtlessness) “I really forgot—I did not mean to make a noise in the corridor.”
“Humph! did not mean—did not mean? What excuse is that, pray?”
“Not a very good one, I am afraid,” admitted Bobby. “But I truly did not intend to break a rule. We were all so much interested in the play——”
“Yes. Quite so. It is evident that I will get little out of you young ladies until the matter of this silly play is settled. I presume you are one of the contestants, Miss Clara?”
“Not at all, Miss Carrington,” said Bobby, demurely. “I did start to write one. It—it would have been a tragedy based upon several of the main incidents in the Punic Wars. But I found that to give the matter proper attention I should be obliged to neglect some of the studies, and——”
“That will do, Miss Hargrew,” interposed the teacher, severely. “You bring me on Friday afternoon a resume of those same Punic Wars—say a thousand words, I shall learn thereby just how much you know about the subject you selected for your play.”
Perhaps Bobby deserved what she got; but she “pulled a dreadfully long face” about it, while the other girls were inclined to enjoy her chagrin.
As for Jess Morse, it seemed to her that the waiting for the announcement of the prize-winner was too hard a cross to bear. So much depended upon the decision of the committee—it did seem as though she could not keep her mind upon the lessons.
If she won—if she won!—there would be plain sailing in the domestic waters of the Morses’ life—and that had come to mean a great deal to the girl. For even Mrs. Prentice’s kindness to them had not cleared away all the troubles for Jess Morse.