"Yes, she goes poking under her bed every night with a cane," said the sneering voice.
"I don't," said Winnie, indignantly.
"Well, who would you like to have been, Winnie?"
"Nobody."
"Oh, what a fib! Now don't get mad, Winnie, sweetie;" and Joan of Arc put her arm around her.
"I am not mad, but I just will not tell you who I admire most: tortures sha'n't get it out of me."
"Try her!" "Try her!" was shouted in chorus; and one seized her inkstand, another her pile of books, and a third was about to eat up her luncheon, when a tap of the bell announced that recess was over.
A week after this incident, one warm day in May, the teacher stopped the class as it was filing out, and said, "Who can go see why Jennie Jessup does not come to school?"
No one answered. It had been so tiresome a day, and all were eager to get home, Winnie especially, as she had been promised a little outing—a pleasant sail to Staten Island, an evening with friends, and a glimpse of blue waters and green fields. At the same time she thought to herself, "I pass the house she lives in. Perhaps I might just take time to stop."
The teacher seemed to divine her thoughts. "I wish you would go, Winnie. You're not afraid?"