"Did you write this to Cecily, Emmeline?" he asked.
"No, sir."
"Who wrote it then?"
Em said quite shamelessly that she didn't know--it had just been
passed over from the next row.
"And I suppose you have no idea where it came from?" said Mr.
Perkins, with his frightful, sardonic grin. "Well, perhaps Cecily
can tell us. You may take your seat, Emmeline, and you will
remain at the foot of your spelling class for a week as punishment
for passing the note. Cecily, come here."
Indignant Em sat down and poor, innocent Cecily was haled forth to
public ignominy. She went with a crimson face.
"Cecily," said her tormentor, "do you know who wrote this letter
to you?"
Cecily, like a certain renowned personage, could not tell a lie.
"I--I think so, sir," she murmured faintly.
"Who was it?"
"I can't tell you that," stammered Cecily, on the verge of tears.
"Ah!" said Mr. Perkins politely. "Well, I suppose I could easily
find out by opening it. But it is very impolite to open other
people's letters. I think I have a better plan. Since you refuse
to tell me who wrote it, open it yourself, take this chalk, and
copy the contents on the blackboard that we may all enjoy them.
And sign the writer's name at the bottom."
"Oh," gasped Cecily, choosing the lesser of two evils, "I'll tell
you who wrote it--it was--
"Hush!" Mr.
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