The call-bell on Miss Lizzie's desk dinged. The suddenness and the emphasis of the ding told on unexpected nerves, but it brought the Fourth Reader class up erect. [Illustration: "File by the platform in order, bringing your lunch."] Miss Lizzie was about to speak. Emmy Lou watched Miss Lizzie's lips open. Emmy Lou often found herself watching Miss Lizzie's lips open. It took an actual, deliberate space of time. They opened, moistened themselves, then shaped the word. "Who in this room has lunch?" said Miss Lizzie, and her very tones hurt. It was as though one were doing wrong in having lunch. Many hands were raised. There were luncheons in nearly every desk. "File by the platform in order, bringing your lunch," said Miss Lizzie. [Illustration: "Lisa's head went down on her arm on the desk."] Feeling apprehensively criminal--of what, however, she had no idea--Emmy Lou went into line, lunch in hand. One's luncheon might be all that it should, neatly pinned in a fringed napkin by Aunt Cordelia, but one felt embarrassed carrying it up. Some were in newspaper. Emmy Lou's heart ached for those. Meanwhile Miss Lizzie bent and deliberately smelled of each package in turn as the little girls filed by. Most of the faces of the little girls were red. Then came Lisa--Lisa Schmit. Her lunch was in paper--heavy brown paper. Miss Lizzie smelled of Lisa's lunch and stopped the line. "Open it," said Miss Lizzie. Lisa rested it on the edge of the platform and untied it. The unpleasantness wafted heavily. There was sausage and dark gray bread and cheese. It was the cheese that was unpleasant. Miss Lizzie's nose, which bent slightly toward her cheek, had a way of dilating. It dilated now. "Go open the stove door," said Miss Lizzie. Lisa went and opened the stove door. "Now, take it and put it in," said Miss Lizzie. Lisa took her lunch and put it in. Her round, soap-scoured little cheeks had turned a mottled red. When she got back to her seat, Lisa's head went down on her arm on the desk, and presently even her yellow plaits shook with the convulsiveness of her sobs. It wasn't the loss of the sausage or the bread or the cheese. Emmy Lou was a big girl now, and she knew. Emmy Lou went home. It was at the dinner table. "I don't like Miss Lizzie," said she. Aunt Cordelia was incredulous, scandalised. "You mustn't talk so." "Little girls must not know what they like," said Aunt Louise. Aunt Louise was apt to be sententious. She was young. "Except in puddings," said Uncle Charlie, passing Emmy Lou's saucer. There was pudding for dinner. But wrong or not, Emmy Lou knew that it was so, she knew she did not like Miss Lizzie. One morning Miss Lizzie forgot the package of trial-paper. The supply was out. She called Rosalie. Then she called Emmy Lou. She told them where her house was, then told them to go there, ring the bell, ask for the paper, and return.