"Harry, I didn't mean—"
"Don't you speak to me again, ever and ever! I don't want to see you! I hate you, hate you, hate you, Roy Porter, and I'll never speak to you again as long as I live!"
"Oh, if you want to be nasty about it," muttered Roy.
But Harry had turned and was running swiftly along the path, trying her best to keep back the angry tears that threatened every moment to disgrace her. Roy watched her go, whistled softly, and then followed slowly after.
"What a little spit-fire!" he muttered with a laugh that was half angry and half regretful. "I don't see what I said, anyhow, except that her hair was red. And it is, as red as fire! If she wants to stay mad she may for all I care."
And then, two days later, there occurred an incident which still further widened the breach between them.
Mr. Buckman opened his desk in Room B in School Hall and stared in amazement. It was the first recitation and the class in geometry watched interestedly. The instructor held forth a white rabbit in each hand.
"Who put these in here?" he demanded sternly.
There was no answer. The class was smiling broadly, but Mr. Buckman's expression prohibited the laughter they longed to indulge in.
"It was a very funny joke," continued Mr. Buckman scathingly, "only, unfortunately, one of the rabbits has been stupid enough to die and so is unable to appreciate it. The other one appears to be on the point of dying. I presume that they belong to Miss Harriet. I fancy she will appreciate the joke heartily. I hope to be able to discover the perpetrator of the delicate jest, in which case he will undoubtedly get all the applause he desires."