“Oh, no,” said his wife, who had noticed Margaret's flushing face. “Girls are not supposed to be soldiers, are they, Margaret?”
Margaret flashed a grateful look at her.
“That's a boy's verse.”
“Ay! that it is,” said the old dominie; “and I would wish very much that Mrs. Murray would conduct this class.”
But the minister's wife would not hear of it, protesting that the dominie could do it much better. The old man, however, insisted, saying that he had no great liking for this part of the examination, and would wish to reserve himself, with the master's permission, for the “arith-MET-ic” class.
Mrs. Murray, seeing that it would please the dominie, took the book, with a spot of color coming in her delicate, high-bred face.
“You must all do your best now, to help me,” she said, with a smile that brought an answering smile flashing along the line. Even Thomas Finch allowed his stolid face a gleam of intelligent sympathy, which, however, he immediately suppressed, for he remembered that the next turn was his, and that he must be getting himself into the appearance of dogged desperation which he considered suitable to a reading exercise.
“Now, Thomas,” said the minister's wife, sweetly, and Thomas plunged heavily.
“They fought like brave men, long—”
“Oh, Thomas, I think we will try that man's verse again, with the cries of battle in it, you know. I am sure you can do that well.”