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Updated: May 17, 2025
Then school can keep right here in the house. How about that? Ain't that a good notion, Miss Going-On-Eighteen?" She could stand his ironic mockery no longer. She faced him, fearless as a tiger: "You villain!" With that, turning on her heel, she passed swiftly into her little bedroom, and slammed the door. He heard the key turn in the lock.
"Home again. I wonder whether Father's here." "I wonder," echoed Weaver grimly. "That little fellow riding into the corral is one of my scholars," she told them. "One of the fourteen that loves you, Miss Going-On-Eighteen. My, there'll be joy in Israel over the lost that is found. I reckon by to-morrow you'll be teaching the young idea how to shoot."
She still had the slimness of immature girlhood, the adorable shy daring of some uncaptured wood nymph. "Does that matter to you, sir?" "How old?" he reiterated. "Going-on-eighteen," she answered not because she wanted to, but because somehow she must. There was something compelling about this man's will. She would have resisted it had she not wanted to gain her point about going home.
"So you teach the kids their A B C's, do you? And you just out of them yourself! How many scholars have you?" "Fourteen." "And they all love teacher, of course. Would you take me for a scholar, Miss Going-On-Eighteen?" "No!" she flamed. "You'd find me right teachable. And I would promise to love you, too." Color came and went in her face beneath the brow. How dared he mock her so!
I get it all the time, and it burns me all the time, but worst of all on the job. Maybe I am only going-on-eighteen, but I'm doing a man's work, and I'm doing it competently. "Well, they grow up young on Fenris, Mr. Murell," Captain Marshak earned my gratitude by putting in. "Either that or they don't live to grow up." Murell unhooked his memophone and repeated the captain's remark into it.
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