“What is the matter, you little troublesome thing?” she said.
“I can’t take six from five,” answered the boy.
“Oh, you goose!” said Harriet; “borrow ten. Now, then, peg away.”
What Harriet meant was Greek to Ralph. “Borrow ten?” he murmured to himself, “borrow ten?”
It was a very hot day, and Ralph, try as he would, could not borrow ten. There was no one to borrow it from. The windows were open at the opposite side of the great room, and a bee came in and sailed lazily round. The bee, in his velvety brown coat, was watched by a pair of eyes as soft, as brown as his own velvet coat. The bee never borrowed ten, that was certain; no more could he. Oh, he was sleepy, and lessons were horrid, and sums were the worst of all. And why, why, why did not his school-mother really help him?
He was just dropping off to sleep when a brisk voice said in his ear:
“What is the matter, Ralph?” He looked round, and there was Robina.
“I am sleepy,” said Ralph. “It’s because I can’t borrow ten. Will you lend it to me?”
Robina bent down over the slate, where poor little Ralph was making a muddle of his sums.
“This is the way you do it,” she said.