do not know how pale
he looked, when I stopped him on the threshold. His very lips turned
white--I declare there is something grand in a great passion. It makes
one look somehow so different from common folks. Well, now, as soon as
he raised his hand to strike me, a red flush shot into his face, like
the blaze of an inward fire. It was shame,--anger made him white--but
shame turned him as red as blood. His arm dropped down to his
side,--then he laid his hand on the top of his head,--'Stay after
school,' said he, 'I must talk with you.'"

"And did you?" I asked, hanging with breathless interest on his words.

"Yes; I have just left him."

"He has not expelled you, Richard?"

"No; but he says I must ask his pardon before the whole school
to-morrow. It amounts to the same thing. I will never do it."

"I am so sorry this has happened," said I. "Oh! that I had never written
that foolish, foolish poetry. It has done so much mischief."

"You are not to blame, Gabriella. He had no business to laugh at it; it
was beautiful--all the boys say so. I have no doubt you will be a great
poetess one of these days. He ought to have been proud of it, instead of
making fun of you. It was so mean."

"But you must go back to school, Richard. You are the best scholar. The
master is proud of you, and will not give you up. I would not have it
said that _I_ was the cause of your leaving, for twice your weight in
solid gold."

"Would you not despise me if I asked pardon, when I have done no wrong;
to appear ashamed of what I glory in; to act the part of a coward, after
publicly proclaiming _him_ to be one?"

"It is hard," said I, "but--"

We were walking homeward all the while we were talking, and at every
step my spirits sank lower and lower. How different every thing seemed
now, from what it did an hour ago. True, I had been treated with
harshness, but I had no right to rebel as I had done. Had I kissed the
rod, it would have lost its sting,--had I borne the smart with patience
and gentleness, my companions would have sympathized with and pitied me;
it would not have been known beyond the walls of the academy. But now,
it would be blazoned through the whole town. The expulsion of so
distinguished a scholar as Richard Clyde would be the nine days' gossip,
the village wonder. And I should be pointed out as the presumptuous
child, whose disappointed vanity, irascibility, and passion had created
rebellion and strife in a hitherto peacef