A new difficulty arose. Ivy found that she could not resume her old habits. To be sure, she learned her lessons just as perfectly at home as she had ever done. Just as punctual to the appointed hour, she went to recite them; but no sooner had her foot crossed Mr. Clerron's threshold than her spirit seemed to die within her. She remembered neither words nor ideas. Day after day, she attempted to go through her recitation as usual, and, day after day, she hesitated, stammered, and utterly failed. His gentle assistance only increased her embarrassment. This she was too proud to endure; and, one day, after an unsuccessful effort, she closed the book with a quick, impatient gesture, and exclaimed,—
"Mr. Clerron, I will not recite any more!"
The agitated flush which had suffused her face gave way to paleness. He saw that she was under strong excitement, and quietly replied,—
"Very well, you need not, if you are tired. You are not quite well yet, and must not try to do too much. We will commence here to-morrow."
"No, Sir,—I shall not recite any more at all."
"Till to-morrow."
"Never any more!"
There was a moment's pause.
"You must not lose patience, my dear. In a few days you will recite as well as ever. A fine notion, forsooth, because you have been ill, and forgotten a little, to give up studying! And what is to become of my laurels, pray,—all the glory I am to get by your proficiency?"
"I shall study at home just the same, but I shall not recite."