One morning, rather more than a fortnight after the Sunday I have told you about, while the three children were at lessons with patient Miss Greenall in the dining-room, Jasper suddenly put his head down on the table, and burst into tears.
They all gave a start of surprise; it was so unlike him!
“What is the matter, dear?” asked the governess, very kindly.
“I can’t do them,” he sobbed, pushing his slate away. “I can’t. My head’s hurtin’ so, and I don’t know how to do them.”
Miss Greenall looked distressed.
“Perhaps I have given you too difficult sums,” she said, for his sums were the “them” of his lament, and she glanced at the rows of figures.
“How she does spoil him!” whispered Chrissie, adding, as she turned to Jasper, “I wouldn’t be such a baby as to cry about it, if I were you.”
But though, as a rule, nothing hurt the little fellow’s feelings as much as any hint of “babyishness,” the words seemed to have no effect. He just cried on.
Miss Greenall tried to soothe him.
“We’ll put away the sums for to-day,” she said. “I know you have tried to do them, and to-morrow I’ll explain them again to you. Suppose you do a little writing for a change? That won’t tire your head.”