“I hope you know your lessons,” said the old lady, as Anne, escorted by her faithful pets, started off.

“Oh, I studied them on Friday, before Judy came—­how long ago that seems—­” and with a rapturous sigh in memory of her three happy days, and with a wave of her hand to the little grandmother, Anne went on her way.

Tommy Tolliver came to school that morning in a chastened spirit.  He had been lectured by his father, and cried over by his mother, and in the darkness of the night he had resolved many things.

But it is not easy to preserve an attitude of humility when one becomes suddenly the center of adoring interest to twenty-five children in a district school.  From the babies of the A, B, C, class to the big boys in algebra, Tommy’s return was an exciting event, and he was received with acclaim.

Hence he boasted and swaggered for them as on Saturday he had boasted and swaggered for Judy’s admiration.

“You ought to go,” he was saying to a small boy, as Anne came up, but when he caught her reproachful eye on him, he backed down, “but not until you are a man, Jimmie,” he temporized.

During the morning session he was a worry and an aggravation to Miss Mary.  The little girls could look at nothing else, for had not Tommy been a sailor, and had he not had experiences which would set him apart from the commonplace boys of Fairfax?  And the boys, a little jealous, perhaps, were yet burning with a desire to be the bosom friend of this bold, bad boy, while the luster of his daring lasted.

And so they were all restless and inattentive, until finally Miss Mary, who had a headache, lost patience.

“You are very noisy,” she said, “and I am ashamed of you.  I am going to put a list of words on the board, and I want you to copy them five times, while I take the little folks out into the yard for their recess.  The rest of you don’t deserve any, and will have to wait until noon.”

That was the first piece of injustice to Anne.  She had been as quiet as a mouse all the morning, and Miss Mary should have seen it and not have punished the innocent with the guilty.  But Anne was a cheery little soul and never thought of questioning Miss Mary’s mandates, and so she went on patiently writing with the rest.

Miss Mary stopped in the door long enough to issue an ultimatum.

“I shall put you on your honor,” she said, “not to talk.  And any one who disobeys will be punished.”

And she went out.

For a little while there was perfect decorum.  Then Tommy grew restless.  Six weeks out of school had made sitting still almost impossible.  He wiggled around in his seat, and began to whistle, “A Life on an Ocean Wave.”

That was a signal for general disorder among the boys.  Without speaking a word, and so preserving the letter of the rule, if not the spirit, they, with Tommy as leader, went through various pantomimic performances.  They hitched up their trousers in seamanlike fashion, they pretended to row boats, they spit on their hands and hauled in imaginary ropes, and as a climax, Tommy danced a hornpipe on his toes.