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seated in parallel rows at desks before her.
Miss Clara, the teacher, lacked Aunt Cordelia's optimism, also her
plumpness. "No doubt she can," agreed Miss Clara, politely, but
without enthusiasm. Miss Clara had stepped from the graduating
rostrum to the schoolroom platform, and she had been there some years.
And when one has been there some years, and is already battling with
seventy little boys and girls, one cannot greet the advent of a
seventy-first with acclaim. Even the fact that one's hair is red is not an
always sure indication that one's temperament is sanguine also.
So in answer to Aunt Cordelia, Miss Clara replied politely but without
enthusiasm, "No doubt she can."

Then Aunt Cordelia went, and Miss Clara gave Emmy Lou a desk. And
Miss Clara then rapping sharply, and calling some small delinquent to
order, Emmy Lou's heart sank within her.
Now Miss Clara's tones were tart because she did not know what to do
with this late comer. In a class of seventy, spare time is not offering for
the bringing up of the backward. The way of the Primer teacher was not
made easy in a public school of twenty-five years ago.
So Miss Clara told the new pupil to copy digits.
Now what digits were, Emmy Lou had no idea, but being shown them
on the black-board, she copied them diligently. And as the time went
on, Emmy Lou went on copying digits. And her one endeavor being to
avoid the notice of Miss Clara, it happened the needs of Emmy Lou
were frequently lost sight of in the more assertive claims of the
seventy.
Emmy Lou was not catching up, and it was January.
But to-day was to be different. The little boy was nodding and
beckoning. So far the seventy had left Emmy Lou alone. As a general
thing the herd crowds toward the leaders, and the laggard brings up the
rear alone.
But to-day the little boy was beckoning. Emmy Lou looked up. Emmy
Lou was pink-cheeked and chubby and in her heart there was no guile.
There was an ease and swagger about the little boy. And he always
knew when to stand up, and what for. Emmy Lou more than once had
failed to stand up, and Miss Clara's reminder had been sharp. It was
when a bell rang one must stand up. But what for, Emmy Lou never
knew, until after the others began to do it.
But the little boy always knew. Emmy Lou had heard him, too, out on
the bench glibly tell Miss Clara about the mat, and a bat, and a black rat.
To-day he stood forth with confidence and told about a fat hen. Emmy
Lou was glad to have the little boy beckon her.

And in her heart there was no guile. That the little boy should be
holding out an end of a severed india-rubber band and inviting her to
take it, was no stranger than other things happening in the Primer
World every day.
The very manner of the infant classification breathed mystery, the
sheep from the goats, so to speak, the little girls all one side the central
aisle, the little boys all the other--and to over-step the line of
demarcation a thing too dreadful to contemplate.
Many things were strange. That one must get up suddenly when a bell
rang, was strange.
And to copy digits until one's chubby fingers, tightly gripping the
pencil, ached, and then to be expected to take a sponge and wash those
digits off, was strange.
And to be told crossly to sit down was bewildering, when in answer to
c, a, t, one said "Pussy." And yet there was Pussy washing her face, on
the chart, and Miss Clara's pointer pointing to her.
So when the little boy held out the rubber band across the aisle, Emmy
Lou took the proffered end.
At this the little boy slid back into his desk holding to his end. At the
critical moment of elongation the little boy let go. And the property of
elasticity is to rebound.
Emmy Lou's heart stood still. Then it swelled. But in her filling eyes
there was no suspicion, only hurt. And even while a tear splashed down,
and falling upon the laboriously copied digits, wrought havoc, she
smiled bravely across at the little boy. It would have made the little boy
feel bad to know how it hurt. So Emmy Lou winked bravely and
smiled.
Whereupon the little boy wheeled about suddenly and fell to copying
digits furiously. Nor did he look Emmy Lou's way, only drove his
pencil into his slate with a fervor that made Miss Clara rap sharply on

her desk.
Emmy Lou wondered if the little boy was mad. One would think it had
stung the