“O, dear! I can’t help it,” said Tate, picking nervously at the wart on her thumb. “I don’t like to get scolded at.”
“Nor I either don’t,” responded Dotty. “Of course not—and her looking so sorry.”
“Then why don’t you hold up your hand?” said Tate. “She thinks you’re real bad. I’d hold it up, and she’ll like you a great deal better.”
“I want to dreadfully, Tate. I’d rather hold up my hand than eat a choclid cake.”
Dotty sighed as she spoke, and gazed sorrowfully at the beautiful teacher, whose love seemed so sweet and desirable.
“O, Tate! I’ve thought of something. S’pose now we try not to whisper.”
Tate looked up in her companion’s face to see if she was in earnest.
“Not whisper!”
“Yes; just one day.”