"Does your head ache often at school, Joel?" she asked, softly laying her cool little palm on his stubby hair.
"Yes," said Joel, "it does, awfully, Phronsie; and nobody cares, and says 'Stop studying."
A shout greeted this.
"That's too bad," said Phronsie pityingly, "I shall just write and ask
Mr. Marks if he won't let you stop and rest when it aches."
"'Twouldn't do any good, Phronsie," said Joel, "nothing would. He's a regular old grinder, Marks is."
"Mr. Marks," said Phronsie slowly, "I don't know who you mean by Marks, Joel. And what is a grinder, please?" getting down on her knees to look in his face.
"And he works us boys so, Phronsie—you can't think," said Joel, ignoring the question.
"What is a grinder, Joel, please tell me," repeated Phronsie with gentle persistence.
"Oh! a grinder is a horrid buffer," began Joel impatiently.
"Joel," said Mrs. Fisher, reprovingly. The fire in her black eyes was not pleasant to look at, and after one glance, he turned back to the blazing logs once more.