g. To give in a mark above what you feel
yourself entitled, is to tell worse than a story, it is to tell a
falsehood, and a falsehood is a lie. I shall leave it to you. I believe
in trusting my pupils, and I shall take no note of your standing. Each
will be answerable for herself." Miss Jenny was very young.

The class sat weighted with the awfulness of the responsibility. It was
a conscientious class, and Miss Jenny's high ideals had worked upon its
sensibilities. No little girl dared to be "six." How could she know, for
instance, in her reading lesson, if she had paused the exact length of a
full stop every time she met with a period? Who could decide? Certainly
not the little girl in her own favour, and perhaps be branded with a
falsehood, which was a lie. Or who, when Roll Call for deportment came,
could ever dare call herself perfect? Self-examination and inward
analysis lead rather to a belief in natural sin. The Third Reader Class
grew conscientious to the splitting of a hair. It was better to be
"four" than "five" and be saved, and "three" than "four," if there was
room for doubt. Class standing fell rapidly.

Emmy Lou struggled to keep up with the downward tendency.

Hattie outstripped her promptly. Hattie could adapt herself to all
exigencies. Emmy Lou even felt envy of Hattie creeping into her heart.

There came an awful day. It was Roll Call for drawing. It had been a
fish, a fish with elaborately serrated fins. Miss Jenny had said that
Emmy Lou's fish was as good as the copy. In her heart Miss Jenny
wondered at the proficiency of her class in drawing, for she could not
draw a straight line. But since Mr. Bryan seemed satisfied and said
every day, "Let them alone, they are getting along," Miss Jenny gave
the credit to Mr. Townsend's system.

She was enthusiastic over Emmy Lou's fish, which Emmy Lou brought up as
soon as Mr. Bryan departed.

"It is wonderful," said Miss Jenny. "It is perfect."

Emmy Lou went back to her desk much troubled. What was she to do? She
had not moved, she had not whispered, she had not lifted the lashes
sweeping her chubby cheeks even to look at Hattie, yet it was the
general belief that no little girl could answer "six," and not tell a
falsehood, which is a lie. Yet, on the other hand, being perfect, Emmy
Lou could not say less. She was perfect. Miss Jenny said so. Emmy Lou
shut her eyes to think. It was approaching her turn to answer.

"Six," said Emmy Lou, opening her eye