Tillie: A Mennonite Maid | Page 2

led to complications, as in her conversation just now
with Tillie.
"Well?" she inquired, lifting the little girl's chin with her forefinger as
Tillie stood at her side and thereby causing that small worshiper to
blush with radiant pleasure. "What is it, honey?"
Miss Margaret always made Tillie feel that she LIKED her. Tillie
wondered how Miss Margaret could like HER! What was there to like?
No one had ever liked her before.
"It wonders me!" Tillie often whispered to herself with throbbing heart.
"Please, Miss Margaret," said the child, "pop says to ast you will you
give me the darst to go home till half-past three this after?"
"If you go home till half-past three, you need not come back, honey--it
wouldn't be worth while, when school closes at four."
"But I don't mean," said Tillie, in puzzled surprise, "that I want to go
home and come back. I sayed whether I have the darst to go home till
half-past three. Pop he's went to Lancaster, and he'll be back till
half-past three a'ready, and he says then I got to be home to help him in
the celery-beds."
Miss Margaret held her pretty head on one side, considering, as she
looked down into the little girl's upturned face. "Is this a conundrum,
Tillie? How your father be in Lancaster now and yet be home until
half-past three? It's uncanny. Unless," she added, a ray of light coming
to her,--"unless 'till' means BY. Your father will be home BY half-past
three and wants you then?"
"Yes, ma'am. I can't talk just so right," said Tillie apologetically, "like
what you can. Yes, sometimes I say my we's like my w's, yet!"
Miss Margaret laughed. "Bless your little heart!" she said, running her
fingers through Tillie's hair. "But you would rather stay in school until
four, wouldn't you, than go home to help your father in the
celery-beds?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am," said Tillie wistfully, "but pop he has to get them
beds through till Saturday market a'ready, and so we got to get 'em
done behind Thursday or Friday yet."
"If I say you can't go home?"
Tillie colored all over her sensitive little face as, instead of answering,
she nervously worked her toe into a crack in the platform.

"But your father can't blame YOU, honey, if I won't let you go home."
"He wouldn't stop to ast me was it my fault, Miss Margaret. If I wasn't
there on time, he'd just--"
"All right, dear, you may go at half-past three, then," Miss Margaret
gently said, patting the child's shoulder. "As soon as you have written
your composition."
"Yes, ma'am, Miss Margaret."
It was hard for Tillie, as she sat at her desk that afternoon, to fix her
wandering attention upon the writing of her composition, so fascinating
was it just to revel idly in the sense of the touch of that loved hand that
had stroked her hair, and the tone of that caressing voice that had called
her "honey."
Miss Margaret always said to the composition classes, "Just try to write
simply of what you see or feel, and then you will be sure to write a
good 'composition.'"
Tillie was moved this afternoon to pour out on paper all that she "felt"
about her divinity. But she had some misgivings as to the fitness of
this.
She dwelt upon the thought of it, however, dreamily gazing out of the
window near which she sat, into the blue sky of the October
afternoon--until presently her ear was caught by the sound of Miss
Margaret's voice speaking to Absalom Puntz, who stood at the foot of
the composition class, now before her on the platform.
"You may read your composition, Absalom."
Absalom was one of "the big boys," but though he was sixteen years
old and large for his age, his slowness in learning classed him with the
children of twelve or thirteen. However, as learning was considered in
New Canaan a superfluous and wholly unnecessary adjunct to the
means of living, Absalom's want of agility in imbibing erudition never
troubled him, nor did it in the least call forth the pity or contempt of his
schoolmates.
Three times during the morning session he had raised his hand to
announce stolidly to his long-suffering teacher, "I can't think of no
subjeck"; and at last Miss Margaret had relaxed her Spartan resolution
to make him do his own thinking and had helped him out.
"Write of something that is interesting you just at present. Isn't there
some one thing you care more about than other things?" she had asked.

Absalom had stared at her blankly without replying.
"Now, Absalom," she had said desperately, "I think I know one thing
you have been interested in lately--write me a composition on Girls."
Of