“What a goose I am, anyway,” she thought, and accepted her punishment with her usual calmness.
At three o’clock, when the other girls, chattering and laughing gathered their books and left the school-room singly and in groups, she sat at her desk waiting for Miss Farrel. The cleaning woman came in, with her mop and bucket, and began to splash the dusty wooden floor. She was a talkative, good-natured old thing, and one of Jane’s numerous intimates.
“Well, now, what are they keepin’ you here for, this fine afternoon, Miss Janey?” she said sympathetically.
“Oh, I don’t mind much. How’s Amelia, Mrs. Tinker?”
“Fine. Fine, miss, thank yer.”
“And how’s Henry Clay?”
“He’s fine, too, I thank yer.”
“Is Mr. Tinker out of the hospital yet?”
“Not yet, I thank yer,” said Mrs. Tinker, cheerfully. “They think as how he’ll have to be there another six weeks or so. Well, I’m not one to complain against what the Lord thinks best, and I says to Henry Clay, ‘Don’t complain, Henry. You let well enough alone,’ says I.”
“Is Henry Clay the one that’s going to be an undertaker?”