And she flung her book over to his window,
and he caught it on the edge of the sill, just as
it was falling.

"You are a very strange girl," he remarked,
turning over the leaves of the book, although
it was too dark to read. "How old are you?"

"I shall be fourteen six weeks before
Christmas," answered she, frankly.

"Then I excuse you."

"No, indeed," cried she, vehemently. "You
needn't excuse me at all. If you don't want to
write my exercise, you may send the book back
again. I am very sorry I spoke to you, and I
shall never do it again."

"But you will not get the book back again
without the exercise," replied he, quietly.
"Good-night."

The girl stood long looking after him, hoping
that he would return. Then, with a great burst
of repentance, she hid her face in her lap, and
began to cry.

"Oh, dear, I didn't mean to be rude," she
sobbed. "But it was Ivanhoe and Rebecca