“Am I right in thinking you were all three absent from your class in Latin Composition yesterday?” he asked. Apparently, it wasn’t at all with the purpose of shielding them he had ordered them to the pillory: for he spoke so distinctly and impressively that even if it hadn’t been so appallingly quiet throughout the big room, his voice would have reached the furthermost corners.
Rose’s voice was the only clear one in the general affirmation.
“And the same the week before?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you two girls have missed more lessons than that?”
Something in Betty’s face seemed to apprise him of the shocking truth.
“You haven’t attended that class once since I came here in January to take Mr. Appleton’s place during his critical illness, in short?” he asked cuttingly.
Had Betty been responsible for Mr. Appleton’s illness or even for his death, she could scarcely have looked more appalled—more guilty.
“No, Mr. Meadowcroft,” she gasped. With all her heart the girl longed to tell him that her action had nothing to do with him, that she had done the same thing before Mr. Appleton left; but she couldn’t have framed the sentence even if her promise to Dr. Vandegrift didn’t forbid her to make any admission or confession that wasn’t forced from her.
“It is certainly time to call a halt,” he remarked. “But first will one of you three kindly explain this unusual conduct on the part of pupils at school?”