“I didn’t mean anything,” she whispered, at last. “I only wanted to know.”
“You are very kind.”
That answer roused her; he was evidently making sport of her.
“Well, then, if you do, you may write my exercise for me. I have marked the place in the book.”
And she flung her book over to his window, and he caught it on the edge of the sill, just as it was falling.
“You are a very strange girl,” he remarked, turning over the leaves of the book, although it was too dark to read. “How old are you?”
“I shall be fourteen six weeks before Christmas,” answered she, frankly.
“Then I excuse you.”
“No, indeed,” cried she, vehemently. “You needn’t excuse me at all. If you don’t want to write my exercise, you may send the book back again. I am very sorry I spoke to you, and I shall never do it again.”
“But you will not get the book back again without the exercise,” replied he, quietly. “Good-night.”