That was the first piece of injustice to Anne. She had been as quiet as a mouse all the morning, and Miss Mary should have seen it and not have punished the innocent with the guilty. But Anne was a cheery little soul and never thought of questioning Miss Mary's mandates, and so she went on patiently writing with the rest.
Miss Mary stopped in the door long enough to issue an ultimatum.
"I shall put you on your honor," she said, "not to talk. And any one who disobeys will be punished."
And she went out.
For a little while there was perfect decorum. Then Tommy grew restless. Six weeks out of school had made sitting still almost impossible. He wiggled around in his seat, and began to whistle, "A Life on an Ocean Wave."
That was a signal for general disorder among the boys. Without speaking a word, and so preserving the letter of the rule, if not the spirit, they, with Tommy as leader, went through various pantomimic performances. They hitched up their trousers in seamanlike fashion, they pretended to row boats, they spit on their hands and hauled in imaginary ropes, and as a climax, Tommy danced a hornpipe on his toes.
And then Anne spoke right out—"Oh, Tommy, don't," she said, in an agony of fear lest Miss Mary should come in and catch him at it.
But Miss Mary did not come, and the little girls giggled and the boys capered, and Anne in despair went on writing her words.
When Miss Mary came back finally, with the little people trooping in a rosy row behind her, twenty-five virtuous heads were bent over twenty-five papers.
"Did any one speak while I was out?" asked the teacher.