The Little School-Mothers. Meade L. T.

she added hastily, “I won’t be hard on you, no fear, and when lessons are over, we’ll have great fun.”

      “Yes, great fun,” repeated Ralph. “The gipsies, perhaps?” he added, pleadingly.

      But Harriet, who had not the least idea in her heart of hearts of bothering herself with regard to gipsies, was silent. They entered the school-room, where all eyes followed them to their seats. Ralph’s choice was considered too wonderful for words, and more than one girl felt that the thing had been managed by foul play. What had occurred they could not tell, but they were positively certain that Ralph of his own accord would never have chosen Harriet.

      Meanwhile, lessons went on, and Ralph struggled over tasks which Robina or any other girl in the form would have rendered easy and pleasant for him, but which Harriet did not trouble herself to think about.

      “Don’t bother!” she whispered once quite crossly, when he pulled her sleeve.

      Towards the end of the morning it was with great difficulty that the little boy could keep back his tears. Of course, he had made a splendid choice, and Harriet was delightful; but, still – but, still – how he did wish he knew how to take nine from seven! Nine would not go from seven because seven wasn’t as much as nine. Oh, how was it done? Then there was six from five. He came to the conclusion at last that sums were not meant for little boys; it was beyond the power of the human brain to manage sums; not even his own father could take six from five. He began in his restlessness to tear up paper, making five little pieces, and then six little pieces, and wondering how he could ever take the greater out of the less.

      “Harriet,” he whispered at last, tugging at her arm, “it can’t be done; see for yourself.”

      “Don’t bother,” whispered Harriet again. But then she saw Robina’s eyes fixed on her face, and, suddenly recovering herself, bent down over Ralph.

      “What is the matter, you little troublesome thing?” she said.

      “I can’t take six from five,” answered the boy.

      “Oh, you goose!” said Harriet; “borrow ten. Now, then, peg away.”

      What Harriet meant was Greek to Ralph. “Borrow ten?” he murmured to himself, “borrow ten?”

      It was a very hot day, and Ralph, try as he would, could not borrow ten. There was no one to borrow it from. The windows were open at the opposite side of the great room, and a bee came in and sailed lazily round. The bee, in his velvety brown coat, was watched by a pair of eyes as soft, as brown as his own velvet coat. The bee never borrowed ten, that was certain; no more could he. Oh, he was sleepy, and lessons were horrid, and sums were the worst of all. And why, why, why did not his school-mother really help him?

      He was just dropping off to sleep when a brisk voice said in his ear:

      “What is the matter, Ralph?” He looked round, and there was Robina.

      “I am sleepy,” said Ralph. “It’s because I can’t borrow ten. Will you lend it to me?”