“Boys and girls,” said the principal, who was doing the honors, “this is Mr. David Knoblock, who will have charge of this class in the future.” And he hurried out.
“David Knoblock!” whispered the wit of the class to his neighbor. “Knoblock, No Block, see?” And a titter ran through the class.
“David Knoblock!” said Katherine to herself. “He looks as though his name might be Percy Pimpernell.”
“David Knoblock!” repeated Hinpoha to herself, and sat mute before the workings of fate. David Knoblock. D. K. The Car of Destiny had stopped before her door and from it had alighted the fair-haired stranger!
Standing before the class in the glory of his yellow hair, pale, sprouting mustache, blue eyes and pink cheeks, Mr. Knoblock seemed to them a composite of Adonis, Paris and Apollo Belvidere, whose mythical charms had been impressed upon them by the late lamented instructor.
“What has the class been reading, Miss—ah—Miss Katherine?” he inquired, consulting the class roll.
“Tennyson, Mr. Knoblock,” answered Katherine briefly.
“Professor Knoblock, if you please,” he corrected gently. “Ah, yes; Tennyson.” And turning the pages of his book with a manicured finger, he found the place and began to read aloud, glancing up at one or another of his girl pupils from time to time. More and more often that glance rested on Hinpoha, for with the sun shining through the window on her hair she was the most vivid spot of color in the room. Finally he did not take his eyes away at all, and, looking her straight in the face, he read in sentimental tones:
“Queen of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,