When the school was dismissed, an hour later, the rest of the scholars filed out of the room, staring hard at Flea as they passed.
Mr. Tayloe had letters to write. Not a sound was heard for the next half-hour, except the scratching of his pen and the rustling of the dried aspen-leaves blown by the wind into the open door and along the aisle. Flea watched them in a miserable, mechanical way. An odd stupor was stealing over her. Her nerves were wellnigh worn to threads, and although the stout heart stood firm, the waiting for an unknown punishment was horrible, and used up what strength positive disgrace had left to her.
Mr. Tayloe wrote on briskly. If Flea had read the letter over his shoulder, she would have seen that it began, "My dear Mother," and was full of merry, affectionate sayings.
Presently he looked up suddenly toward the door, smiled, hustled his papers into his desk, caught up his hat, and walked quickly down the aisle. In going out, he slammed the door behind him.
She was, then, to be left there all night!