There was something in my novel relation to the girl as her teacher
peculiarly fascinating to me. At recess she remained in her seat and kept
quietly at her work.
I went down and stood over her. "Can I help you, my dear?" I said.
Whatever might have been the pedantic or obtrusively condescending
quality of those words, Rebecca seemed to find nothing distasteful in
them. She looked up with a "Thank you," and a pleased, trustful face like
a child's. "I can't do this one," said she. "I've finished the rest, but
this wouldn't come right, somehow."
It was a sum in simple addition. I could not help a feeling of deep
surprise and commiseration that one of Rebecca's age should have stumbled
at it at all, but I essayed to examine it very closely and worked it out
for her as slowly as possible. "Do you see your mistake?" I said.
She blushed painfully. The tears almost stood in her eyes.
"Yes, and I knew you'd have to find out how dull I was," she said; "but I
dreaded it. When Miss Waite was here, mother was sick and I didn't go to
school at all, and Miss Waite took me for a friend; and I told mother I'd
most rather not go to school to you, for Miss Waite said you'd be a real
friend, and I knew you wouldn't want me when you found how dull I was.
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