,'" he continued, reading his manuscript, "'we should
treat our teacher as a friend, and so _I_ will write YOU a letter.'"

This penetrated Penrod's trance, and he lifted his eyes to fix them upon
the back of Georgie Bassett's head in a long and inscrutable stare. It
was inscrutable, and yet if Georgie had been sensitive to thought waves,
it is probable that he would have uttered a loud shriek; but he remained
placidly unaware, continuing:

"'I thought I would write you about a subject of general interest, and
so I will write you about the flowers. There are many kinds of flowers,
spring flowers, and summer flowers, and autumn flowers, but no winter
flowers. Wild flowers grow in the woods, and it is nice to hunt them in
springtime, and we must remember to give some to the poor and hospitals,
also. Flowers can be made to grow in flower-beds and placed in vases in
houses. There are many names for flowers, but _I_ call them "nature's
ornaments.--'"

Penrod's gaze had relaxed, drooped to his button again, and his lethargy
was renewed. The outer world grew vaguer; voices seemed to drone at a
distance; sluggish time passed heavily--but some of it did pass.

"Penrod!"

Miss Spence's searching eye had taken note of the bent head and the
twisting button. She found it necessary to speak again.

"Penrod Schofield!"

He came languidly to life.

"Ma'am?"

"You may read your letter."

"Yes'm."

And he began to paw clumsily among his books, whereupon Miss Spence's
glance fired with suspicion.

"Have you prepared one?" she demanded.

"Yes'm," said Penrod dreamily.

"But you're going to find you forgot to bring it, aren't you?"

"I got it," said Penrod, discovering the paper in his "Principles of
English Composition."

"Well, we'll listen to what you've found time to prepare," she said,
adding coldly, "for once!"

The frankest pessimism concerning Penrod permeated the whole room; even
the eyes of those whose letters had not met with favour turned upon him
with obvious assurance that here was every prospect of a performance
that would, by comparison, lend a measure of credit to the worst
preceding it. But Penrod was unaffected by the general gaze; he rose,
still blinking from his lethargy, and in no true sense wholly alive.

He had one idea: to read as rapidly as possible, so as to be done with
the task, and he began in a high-pitched monotone, reading with a blind
mind and no sense of the significance of the word