But the young lady only glanced askance at the audacious little law-breaker at her side, and edged nervously away from her.
Petronilla not being easily affronted or slighted, however, came close to little red-head, and holding her book to her mouth, whispered again:
“Does she ever whip you or anything? She looks cross enough to do it. Ain’t it awful, coming to school?”
Seeing there was no escape from her persecutor, red-head thrust her knuckles into her eyes and began to cry.
“What’s the matter now?” said the teacher, turning sharply round, and looking threateningly at Pet.
“Why, Miss Sharpe, she keeps a-talking to me all the time and won’t stop,” whispered the unhappy owner of the red hair.
“What is she saying?” said Miss Sharpe, in a quick, irritated voice, that strongly reminded Pet of Dismal Hollow and Miss Priscilla Toosypegs.
“She—she—she says you’re a—a—a horrid cross old thing, please, ma’am!” wept the little one, digging her knuckles still further into her eyes.
Miss Sharpe’s face grew black as a thunder-cloud—owing to her peculiar complexion, she generally blushed black or deep orange. In all her thirteen years’ teaching, she had never encountered a pupil who had dared to call her a “horrid cross old thing” before. Old!—that was the the worst. To be called so before the whole school, too! Miss Sharpe sat for one awful moment perfectly speechless with rage, and so black in the face that there seemed serious danger of her bursting a blood-vessel on the spot.
Once again a loud laugh, that would not be restrained, came from the sixty pretty mouths of the sixty young ladies so often spoken of. Even the teachers, although they sternly called “silence!” were forced to cough violently to hide the smile that was creeping over their faces at Miss Sharpe’s rage.