“Turn!” said the teacher, in her tired, mechanical voice.  The children turned their stubbed-toed shoes out into the aisle, their eyes menacingly on Camilla.

“Rise!” Like a covey of partridge, they all stood up, stretching, twisting their bodies, stiff and torpid after the long hours of immobility.

“Pass!” Clattering feet all over the building began moving along the aisles and out towards the cloakrooms.  Every one seized his own wraps with a practised snatch, and passed on, still in line, over the dusty wooden floors of the hall, down the ill-built, resounding stairs, out to the playground—­out to Sylvia’s ordeal.

As she came out blinkingly into the strong spring sunlight, she still had reached no decision.  Her impulse was to run, as fast as she could, out to the gate and down the street—­home!  But another impulse held her back.  The lines were breaking up.  Camilla was turning about with a smile to speak to her.  Malevolent eyes were fixed on them from all sides.  Sylvia felt her indecision mount in a cloud about her, like blinding, scalding steam.

And then, there before her, stood Judith, her proud dark little face set in an angry scowl, her arm about Cecile Fingal’s neck.

Sylvia never could think what she would have done if Judith had not been there; but then, Judith was one of the formative elements of her life—­as much as was the food she ate or the thoughts she had.  What she did was to turn as quickly and unhesitatingly as though she had always meant to do it, put her arm through Camilla’s and draw her rapidly towards the gate where the surrey waited.  Judith and Cecile followed.  The crowds of astonished, and for the moment silenced, children fell back before them.

Once she had taken her action, Sylvia saw that it was the only one possible.  But she was upheld by none of the traditional pride in a righteous action, nor by a raging single-mindedness like Judith’s, who stalked along, her little fists clenched, frowning blackly to right and left on the other children, evidently far more angry with them than sympathetic for Cecile.  Sylvia did not feel angry with any one.  She was simply more acutely miserable than she had ever dreamed possible.  The distance to the surrey seemed endless to her.

Her sudden rush had taken Camilla so completely by surprise that not until they were at the gate did she catch her breath to ask laughingly:  “What in the world’s the matter with you, Sylvia?  You act so queer!”

Sylvia did not answer, every nerve bent on getting Camilla into safety, but a little red-headed boy from the second grade, who could scarcely talk plainly, burst out chantingly, pointing his dirty forefinger at Camilla: 

“Nigger, nigger, never die, Black face and shiny eye, Curly hair and curly toes—­ That’s the way the nigger goes!”

There was a loud laugh from the assembled children.