Tillie felt that she was ill preparing the way for her dread confession in the very bad recitations she made all morning.  She failed in geography—­every question that came to her; she failed to understand Miss Margaret’s explanation of compound interest, though the explanation was gone over a third time for her especial benefit; she missed five words in spelling and two questions in United States history!

“Tillie, Tillie!” Miss Margaret solemnly shook her head, as she closed her book at the end of the last recitation before recess.  “Too much ‘Ivanhoe,’ I’m afraid!  Well, it’s my fault, isn’t it?”

The little girl’s blue eyes gazed up at her with a look of such anguish, that impulsively Miss Margaret drew her to her side, as the rest of the class moved away to their seats.

“What’s the matter, dear?” she asked.  “Aren’t you well?  You look pale and ill!  What is it, Tillie?”

Tillie’s overwrought heart could bear no more.  Her head fell on Miss Margaret’s shoulder as she broke into wildest crying.  Her body quivered with her gasping sobs and her little hands clutched convulsively at Miss Margaret’s gown.

“You poor little thing!” whispered Miss Margaret, her arms about the child; “What’s the matter with you, honey?  There, there, don’t cry so—­tell me what’s the matter.”

It was such bliss to be petted like this—­to feel Miss Margaret’s arms about her and hear that loved voice so close to her!—­for the last time!  Never again after this moment would she be liked and caressed!  Her heart was breaking and she could not answer for her sobbing.

“Tillie, dear, sit down here in my chair until I send the other children out to recess—­and then you and I can have a talk by ourselves, “Miss Margaret said, leading the child a step to her arm-chair on the platform.  She stood beside the chair, holding Tillie’s throbbing head to her side, while she tapped the bell which dismissed the children.

“Now,” she said, when the door had closed on the last of them and she had seated herself and drawn Tillie to her again, “tell me what you are crying for, little girlie.”

“Miss Margaret!” Tillie’s words came in hysterical, choking gasps; “you won’t never like me no more when I tell you what’s happened, Miss Margaret!”

“Why, dear me, Tillie, what on earth is it?”

“I didn’t mean to do it, Miss Margaret!  And I’ll redd up for you, Fridays, still, till it’s paid for a’ready, Miss Margaret, if you’ll leave me, won’t you, please?  Oh, won’t you never like me no more?”

“My dear little goosie, what is the matter with you?  Come,” she said, taking the little girl’s hand reassuringly in both her own, “tell me, child.”

A certain note of firmness in her usually drawling Southern voice checked a little the child’s hysterical emotion.  She gulped the choking lump in her throat and answered.

“I was readin’ ‘Ivanhoe’ in bed last night, and pop woke up, and seen my candle-light, and he conceited he’d look once and see what it was, and then he seen me, and he don’t uphold to novel-readin’, and he—­he—­”