“I’m not afraid of her!” spoke out little George, boldly. “And I don’t mean to say a single lesson.”
“That won’t be right,” said Madeline. “She is our teacher, you know.”
“She isn’t my teacher if I don’t choose; and I don’t choose,” responded young America. “I’ll say my lessons to Miss Harper; and I won’t say them to anybody else.”
“Madeline dear!” It was a new voice among the interlocutors, and the tones send a strange thrill among the nerves of Mrs. Dainty.
All was silent for some moments. The presence of the new-comer seemed to have thrown a spell over the children.
“Come, dear; I want to show you something beautiful I have in my room.”
Mrs. Dainty sat breathlessly still, listening. There was the sound as of a child rising slowly from the floor.
“Come, George.” It was the same voice.
“A’n’t a-going to!” was the quick, sturdy reply.
“Yes, George; come. I’ve got some beautiful things up in my room.”