“Great—I should think she was!” Jacquette agreed, impulsively. “I’m afraid of her and I like her at the same minute. ‘My cunning chicken’! Louise, I’ve had one year of French at home; I hope I can take my second year with her.”
“All right; let’s plan it that way.” And the girls fell to work on Jacquette’s programme.
Tap, tap, tap, sounded on Mademoiselle’s desk, when they had nearly finished.
“Now, my little flock,” said the small Frenchwoman, standing behind her desk to address the roomful of fifty young people, whose ages ranged from fifteen to eighteen. “My sweet pets”—she paused and dimpled—“at the beginning of the year, I will explain to you the meaning of the bells. You see, I never have the least particle of trouble with the dear children who study in my room—not the least particle—after I have once explained the meaning of the bells. It is this: First bell, no walking; second bell, no talking; and third bell”—her voice had dropped almost to a whisper—“when the third bell rings, in Mademoiselle’s room, it is always as still as a little rose garden!”
“What did I tell you?” murmured Louise. “See how they strain their ears to catch every word she says.”
“If I hear any voice,” Mademoiselle’s hushed tones went on, after she had cast one keen glance at Louise, “if there is ever any sound at all, I know it must be an echo from that bad room across the hall, for my children never give me the least particle of trouble—the sweet pets!
“Very good. You are just as I knew you would be, dear children. Now, Alice, honey, when you registered yesterday, did you not ask to be excused from drawing, this quarter?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle Dubois,” answered a tall, serious looking sophomore, who had evidently met Mademoiselle, before.
“Well, sweet pet, did you bring your note of excuse from mamma, to-day?”
“No, Mademoiselle, I forgot it.”