The boy looked up innocently. “Who, me?” he said.
“Yes, you,” she said. “If you do that once more, I’ll—I’ll— You’re just horrid, and I wish you wouldn’t ever speak to me again. So there.”
Master Peter laughed, and this made her angrier still. But she couldn’t help thinking what a jolly laugh it was.
“Order!” said the teacher. “The class in algebra will come to order. Answer to your names as I call the roll.”
Chalk, blackboard, a + b, x - y, teacher handing out papers, boys playing tricks, girls passing notes,—all this dragged on forever and forever, and there didn’t seem to be any hope of ever getting out; but a bell rang at last, and school was over.
The glass coach was waiting outside. Merrimeg noticed that it was broken in several places. Myrma took her hand, and they sat down inside the coach. Old Porringer touched up his ponies, and away they ran, faster than before.
“What’s the matter with your hair?” said Myrma.
Merrimeg looked at the end of her pigtail, and it was all green.
“Oh, it’s that horrid boy,” she said. “He’s dipped it in his ink-well. I’ll never never speak to him again.”
The ponies trotted much faster down the valley now. The blossoms had dropped from the trees, and the air was warmer and the light brighter. Merrimeg yawned and closed her eyes. “I think I’ll take a little nap,” she said.