The teacher looked about him with disapproval in his glance. The group contained, no doubt, its fair proportion of future legislators and presidents, but the raw material was neither encouraging nor pleasant to look upon. The culprits returned his wavering gaze, some looking a little conscience-smitten, others boldly impertinent, others still (and those the worst in the lot) with a charming air of innocence and candor.
"What is it?" the master repeated. "What is the matter?"
"They were plaguing Bobby, here," the girl broke in, breathlessly,—"taking his marbles away, and making him cry—the mean, cruel things!"
"Hush!" said the teacher, with a feeble gesture of authority. "Is that so, boys?"
The boys grinned at each other furtively, but made no answer.
"Boys," he remarked, solemnly, "I—I'm ashamed of you!"
The delinquents not appearing crushed by this announcement, he turned again to the girl.
"Girls should not quarrel and fight, my dear. It isn't proper, you know."
A mocking smile sprang to the girl's lips, and a sharp glance shot from under her black, up-curling lashes, but she did not speak.