Miss Grant turned her wistful and somewhat anxious eyes toward the eastern horizon, and rested a hand upon the shoulder of a tall girl at her side.
"He may be ill, Johnny," she said, reluctantly, "or his watch may be wrong. He's sure to come in time for morning song service. Come, Meta, let us go in and look at those fractions."
Five—ten—fifteen minutes passed and the two heads bent still over book and slate. Twenty minutes, and Johnny's head appeared at the door, half a dozen others behind it.
"Has he come, Johnny?"
"No'm; sha'n't I go an' see——"
But Miss Grant arose, stopping him with a gesture. "He would laugh at us, Johnny." Then, with another look at the anxious faces, "wait until nine o'clock, at least."
Johnny and his followers went sullenly back to the porch, and Meta's lip began to quiver.
"Somethin's happened to him, Miss Grant," she whimpered; "I know somethin' has happened!"
"Nonsense," said Miss Grant. But she went to the window and called to a little girl at play upon the green.