The singing-school added little to the knowledge or the
cheerfulness of that neighbourhood. It came to an end the last day
of the winter term. As usual, Trove went home with Polly. It was
a cold night, and as the crowd left them at the corners he put his
arm around her.
"School is over," said she, with a sigh, "and I'm sorry."
"For me?" he inquired.
"For myself," she answered, looking down at the snowy path.
There came a little silence crowded with happy thoughts.
"At first, I thought you very dreadful," she went on, looking up at
him with a smile. He could see her sweet face in the moonlight and
was tempted to kiss it.
"Why?"
"You were so terrible," she answered. "Poor Joe Beach! It seemed
as if he would go through the wall."
"Well, something had to happen to him," said the teacher.
"He likes, you now, and every one likes you here. I wish we could
have you always for a teacher."
"I'd be willing to be your teacher, always, if I could only teach
you what you have taught me."
"Oh, dancing," said she, merrily; "that is nothing. I'll give you
all the lessons you like."
"No, I shall not let you teach me that again," said he.
"Why?"
"Because your pretty feet trample on me.
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