“It’s on his card.”
Miss Wigger referred to the card again, and discovered (faintly traced in pencil) these words: “To see Miss S.W.”
The schoolmistress instantly looked at Miss Westerfield. Miss Westerfield rose from her place at the head of her class.
The pupils, astonished at this daring act, all looked at the teacher—their natural enemy, appointed to supply them with undesired information derived from hated books. They saw one of Mother Nature’s favorite daughters; designed to be the darling of her family, and the conqueror of hearts among men of all tastes and ages. But Sydney Westerfield had lived for six weary years in the place of earthly torment, kept by Miss Wigger under the name of a school. Every budding beauty, except the unassailable beauty of her eyes and her hair, had been nipped under the frosty superintendence of her maternal aunt. Her cheeks were hollow, her delicate lips were pale; her shabby dress lay flat over her bosom. Observant people, meeting her when she was out walking with the girls, were struck by her darkly gentle eyes, and by the patient sadness of her expression. “What a pity!” they said to each other. “She would be a pretty girl, if she didn’t look so wretched and so thin.”
At a loss to understand the audacity of her teacher in rising before the class was dismissed, Miss Wigger began by asserting her authority. She did in two words: “Sit down!”
“I wish to explain, ma’am.”
“Sit down.”
“I beg, Miss Wigger, that you will allow me to explain.”
“Sydney Westerfield, you are setting the worst possible example to your class. I shall see this man myself. Will you sit down?”
Pale already, Sydney turned paler still. She obeyed the word of command—to the delight of the girls of her class. It was then within ten minutes of the half hour after twelve—when the pupils were dismissed to the playground while the cloth was laid for dinner. What use would the teacher make of that half hour of freedom?