Indignant Em sat down and poor, innocent Cecily was haled forth to public ignominy. She went with a crimson face.
“Cecily,” said her tormentor, “do you know who wrote this letter to you?”
Cecily, like a certain renowned personage, could not tell a lie.
“I—I think so, sir,” she murmured faintly.
“Who was it?”
“I can’t tell you that,” stammered Cecily, on the verge of tears.
“Ah!” said Mr. Perkins politely. “Well, I suppose I could easily find out by opening it. But it is very impolite to open other people’s letters. I think I have a better plan. Since you refuse to tell me who wrote it, open it yourself, take this chalk, and copy the contents on the blackboard that we may all enjoy them. And sign the writer’s name at the bottom.”
“Oh,” gasped Cecily, choosing the lesser of two evils, “I’ll tell you who wrote it—it was—
“Hush!” Mr. Perkins checked her with a gentle motion of his hand. He was always most gentle when most inexorable. “You did not obey me when I first ordered you to tell me the writer. You cannot have the privilege of doing so now. Open the note, take the chalk, and do as I command you.”
Worms will turn, and even meek, mild, obedient little souls like Cecily may be goaded to the point of wild, sheer rebellion.