"You must study it out of books. I s'pose she's going to live here? She's not going back to the Ingies? I heard the captain was coming home." "He is settling up his affairs," was the quiet answer. Dame Wilby looked the child all over. "You'll sit on that bench," she said. Then she rang the bell and the children trooped in, staring at her. The little boys--four of them--were on the seat back of her, on her seat she made the fifth. Betty Upham was in the desk contingent. They repeated the Lord's prayer in concert. Then lessons were given out. The larger girls read. "You can come and read with this class;" nodding to Cynthia. She was not a regularly bashful child, but she flushed as the children stared at her. They sometimes wore their Sunday white frock one or two days at school. Cynthia was so used to her clothes, cared so little about them that they were rarely in her mind. But this universal attention annoyed her. "'Tend to your books, children." Cynthia acquitted herself finely, rather too much so, the dame thought. She would talk to her about it. A girl didn't want to read as if she was a minister preaching a sermon. Then she was given a very much "dog's-eared" spelling-book to study down a column. Another class read some easy lesson; a story about a dog that interested her so much that she forgot to study. While the older children were doing sums one little boy after another came up to the desk and spelled from a book. One's attention wandered and the dame hit him a sharp rap. Tables followed, eight and nine times; dry measure, and then questions were asked singly. Some few missed. Cynthia followed the spelling where they went up and down. Then the larger ones were dismissed for recess. "Cynthy Leverett, come up here and see how many words you can spell. You ought to be ashamed, a big girl like you staying behind in next to the baby class." Cynthia's face was scarlet. Alas! She had been so interested watching and listening she had not studied at all. But the words were rather easy and she did know all but two. "Now you take the next line and those two over again. See if you can't get them all learned by noon." The next little girl, who could not have been more than six, missed a number. She had a queer drawl in her voice. "What did I tell you, Jane Mason? And you have missed more than two. Hold out your hand!" The switch came down on the poor little hand with an angry swish. Cynthia winched. "Now you go back and study. No going out to play for you this morning. Jane Mason, you're the biggest dunce in school." The two other girls did better. Then the bell rang and the girls came in with flushed and laughing faces. Cynthia studied her two words over until they ceased to have any meaning. At twelve they were all dismissed. "Isn't she a hateful old thing?" said Janie Mason, when they were outside of the door. "I wish I was big enough to strike back. I don't like school anyhow. Do you?"