A crisis quickens the wits.  They heard the cathedral clock strike the quarter to three.  They whispered, suggested, argued—­bunched in the farthest corner from Pupasse.

“Console yourself, Pupasse!  We will help you, Pupasse!  Say no more about it!  We will help you!”

A delegate was sent to say that.  She was only four feet and a half high, and had to stand on tiptoe to pluck the six-foot Pupasse’s dress to gain her attention.

And they did help her generously.  A new sheet of fool’s-cap was procured, and torn in two, lengthwise, and pinned in a long strip.  One by one, each little girl took it, and, retiring as far as possible, would put her hand into her pocket, and, extracting her list, would copy it in full on the new paper.  Then she would fold it down, and give it to the next one, until all had written.

“Here, Pupasse; here are all our sins.  We give them to you; you can have them.”

Pupasse was radiant; she was more than delighted, and the more she read the better pleased she was.  Such a handsome long list, and so many sins she had never thought of—­never dreamed of!  She set herself with zeal to commit them to memory.  But a hand on the door—­Madame Joubert!  You never could have told that those little girls had not been sitting during the whole time, with their hands clasped and eyes cast up to the ceiling, or moving their lips as the prayer-beads glided through their fingers.  Their versatility was really marvelous.

[Illustration:  THE FIRST COMMUNION.]

Poor Pupasse!  God solved the dilemma of her education, and madame’s increasing sensitiveness about her appearance in the fifth class, by the death of the old grandmother.  She went home to the funeral, and never returned—­or at least she returned, but only for madame.  There was a little scene in the parlor:  Pupasse, all dressed in black, with her bag of primary books in her hand, ready and eager to get back to her classes and fools’ caps; madame, hesitating between her interests and her fear of ridicule; Madame Joubert, between her loyalty to school and her conscience.  Pupasse the only one free and untrammeled, simple and direct.

That little school parlor had been the stage for so many scenes!  Madame Joubert detested acting—­the comedy, as she called it.  There was nothing she punished with more pleasure up in her room.  And yet—­

“Pupasse, ma fille, give me your grammar.”

The old battered, primitive book was gotten out of the bag, the string still tied between the leaves for convenience in hanging around the neck.

“Your last punishment:  the rule for irregular verbs.  Commence!”

“I know it, Madame Joubert; I know it perfectly, I assure you.”

“Commence!”

“Irregular verbs—­but I assure you I know it—­I know it by heart—­”

“Commence, ma fille!”

“Irregular verbs—­irregular verbs—­I know it, Madame Joubert—­one moment—­” and she shook her right hand, as girls do to get inspiration, they say.  “Irregular verbs—­give me one word, Madame Joubert; only one word!”