In spite of her
apparent studiousness, however, she missed her lesson and,
automatically, the little Professor told her to stay in after
school and recite to Miss Saunders. And so June and Miss Anne sat
in the school-room alone--the teacher reading a book, and the
pupil--her tears unshed--with her sullen face bent over her
lesson. In a few moments the door opened and the little Professor
thrust in his head. The girl had looked so hurt and tired when he
spoke to her that some strange sympathy moved him, mystified
though he was, to say gently now and with a smile that was rare
with him:
"You might excuse June, I think, Miss Saunders, and let her recite
some time to-morrow," and gently he closed the door. Miss Anne
rose:
"Very well, June," she said quietly.
June rose, too, gathering up her books, and as she passed the
teacher's platform she stopped and looked her full in the face.
She said not a word, and the tragedy between the woman and the
girl was played in silence, for the woman knew from the searching
gaze of the girl and the black defiance in her eyes, as she
stalked out of the room, that her own flush had betrayed her
secret as plainly as the girl's words had told hers.
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