“It wonders me!” Tillie often whispered to herself with throbbing heart.

“Please, Miss Margaret,” said the child, “pop says to ast you will you give me the darst to go home till half-past three this after?”

“If you go home till half-past three, you need not come back, honey—­it wouldn’t be worth while, when school closes at four.”

“But I don’t mean,” said Tillie, in puzzled surprise, “that I want to go home and come back.  I sayed whether I have the darst to go home till half-past three.  Pop he’s went to Lancaster, and he’ll be back till half-past three a’ready, and he says then I got to be home to help him in the celery-beds.”

Miss Margaret held her pretty head on one side, considering, as she looked down into the little girl’s upturned face.  “Is this a conundrum, Tillie?  How your father be in Lancaster now and yet be home until half-past three?  It’s uncanny.  Unless,” she added, a ray of light coming to her,—­“unless ‘till’ means by.  Your father will be home by half-past three and wants you then?”

“Yes, ma’am.  I can’t talk just so right,” said Tillie apologetically, “like what you can.  Yes, sometimes I say my we’s like my w’s, yet!”

Miss Margaret laughed.  “Bless your little heart!” she said, running her fingers through Tillie’s hair.  “But you would rather stay in school until four, wouldn’t you, than go home to help your father in the celery-beds?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” said Tillie wistfully, “but pop he has to get them beds through till Saturday market a’ready, and so we got to get ’em done behind Thursday or Friday yet.”

“If I say you can’t go home?”

Tillie colored all over her sensitive little face as, instead of answering, she nervously worked her toe into a crack in the platform.

“But your father can’t blame you, honey, if I won’t let you go home.”

“He wouldn’t stop to ast me was it my fault, Miss Margaret.  If I wasn’t there on time, he’d just—­”

“All right, dear, you may go at half-past three, then,” Miss Margaret gently said, patting the child’s shoulder.  “As soon as you have written your composition.”

“Yes, ma’am, Miss Margaret.”

It was hard for Tillie, as she sat at her desk that afternoon, to fix her wandering attention upon the writing of her composition, so fascinating was it just to revel idly in the sense of the touch of that loved hand that had stroked her hair, and the tone of that caressing voice that had called her “honey.”

Miss Margaret always said to the composition classes, “Just try to write simply of what you see or feel, and then you will be sure to write a good ‘composition.’”

Tillie was moved this afternoon to pour out on paper all that she “felt” about her divinity.  But she had some misgivings as to the fitness of this.

She dwelt upon the thought of it, however, dreamily gazing out of the window near which she sat, into the blue sky of the October afternoon—­until presently her ear was caught by the sound of Miss Margaret’s voice speaking to Absalom Puntz, who stood at the foot of the composition class, now before her on the platform.