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All teachers have ways, that is to be expected, it is the part of an Emmy Lou to adjust herself to meet, not to try to understand, these ways. Miss Lizzie kept in, but that was only one of her ways, she had many others. Perhaps they were no more peculiar than the ways of her predecessors, but they were more alarming.
But could one speak, and take work and bread from a Miss Lizzie? When papa came down, he had Emmy Lou, white-cheeked, by the hand. He had also a sternness about his mouth. "I got her, you see," he explained with an assumption of comical chagrin, "but with limitations. She's got to say she's sorry, or she can't come back." "I'm not sorry," said Emmy Lou wearily, but with steadiness.
He put it on his master's pillow, and went to the window to admire the view. Septimus aroused, read the letter. It was from Emmy. It ran: "DEAREST SEPTIMUS: "I can't stand this loneliness in Paris any longer. I can't, I can't. If you were here and I could see you even once a week, I shouldn't mind. But to go on day after day indefinitely without a comforting word from you is more than I can bear.
She again seized Emmy, delaying once more Emmy's mechanical unfastening of the big buttons of her coat. "Alf! Get your coat. Get her out of the house! I never heard such rubbish! Alf, say ... tell her you meant her to go! Say it wasn't me!" "I shouldn't believe him," Emmy said, clearly. "I know I saw him holding your hand." Jenny laughed hysterically. "What a fuss!" she exclaimed.
But you'll find my carriage is watertight. Come along, my mother and Emmy are in the vestry." Jos Sedley was splendid. He was fatter than ever. His shirt collars were higher; his face was redder; his shirt-frill flaunted gorgeously out of his variegated waistcoat.
It seemed almost like preconcerted reflection on her biscuits and her ham. Hattie took Emmy Lou aside. "It's their religion," said Hattie, in tones of large tolerance. "We can eat anything, you and I, 'Piscopalians and Presbyterians." "But Rosalie," said Emmy Lou; Rosalie, like Emmy Lou, was Episcopalian. But Rosalie had joined Hattie and Emmy Lou.
But Emmy heard him not. The dismaying sense of utter loneliness smote her down. It was the last straw. Edith, on whom she had staked all her hopes of physical comfort, was not there. Overstrained in body, nerves, and mind, she sank helplessly in the chair which Septimus set out for her before the fire, too exhausted to cry. She began to speak in a queer, toneless voice: "I don't know what to do.
I'll cook Carolina fashion, or I wont cook at all." "Well, but what shall I do?" said Mrs. Moore; "you wouldn't have me do a thing my husband disapproves of, would you?" "No, that I wouldn't, Miss Emmy," said Aunt Polly. "My old man's dust and ashes long ago, but I always done what I could to please him.
It seemed as though Miss Lizzie did it to be mean. Then Emmy Lou's cheeks grew hot. She put the thought quickly away that she might forget it; but the wedge was entered. Teachers were no longer infallible. Emmy Lou had questioned the motives of pedagogic deism. And so Emmy Lou and Hattie were separated. But there were three new little girls near Emmy Lou. Their kid button-shoes had tassels.
The close of the first week of Emmy Lou's second year at a certain large public school found her round, chubby self, like a pink-cheeked period, ending the long line of intermingled little boys and girls making what was known, twenty-five years ago, as the First-Reader Class.
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