--I acted like that--yesterday at 'rithmetic," faltered
Bobby jerkily. "My mother says I musn't be a poor loser."

"All right, Robert, we'll overlook that," rejoined Miss Mason
graciously. "I could see you were piqued because you failed. But is
that all you have to tell me?"

Bobby stared at her.

"Have you nothing to say about the book?" urged Miss Mason.

"I didn't do it," insisted Bobby. "You don't think I would lie, do
you--not really?" he asked, amazed.

"I don't know what to think," sighed Miss Mason. "I am heartily sorry
I ever brought the book to school. And, Robert, I thought it my duty
to speak to Mr. Carter about this. You are to go to the office direct
from assembly without coming back here."

Poor Bobby came as near to fainting as a boy ever does. Mr. Carter! He
shared all the awe and fear of the other boys for the principal of
whom little was known, he spending most of his time at the grammar
school. Evidently Miss Mason must think him very bad indeed if she had
sent for Mr. Carter.

All through assembly Bobby's thoughts were on the coming interview,
and though he usually loved to sing the opening song, this morning he
did not sing a note. He looked so solemn and serious that Tim Roon,
watching him, decided his father must have whipped him.

The exercises were over too soon for Bobby, who would have had them
last the rest of the day if he had been consulted, and the long
lines of marching children went back to their classrooms.

"I wonder where Bobby is," thought Meg uneasily, when Miss Mason's
classes had rustled into place and Bobby's seat was still vacant.

Bobby, if she had known it, was at that moment making his reluctant
way to the office. Just the mere letters printed on the door were
enough to make his heart sink down into his shoes, and, as he told his
mother afterward, he wished he could "die on the little mat you're
supposed to wipe your feet on."

He wiped his feet carefully, took a last desperate look up and down
the empty hall, and tapped on the door.

"Come in," called a deep, pleasant voice, not at all the kind of voice
you would expect a stern, cross principal to use.

Bobby opened the door and went in. Mr. Carter was writing at Miss
Wright's desk and there was no one else in the room. Bobby knew the
principal by sight, for he had seen him once or twice in the
corridors. It seemed that Mr. Carter also knew the pupils.

"Well, Bobby," he said cheerfully. "You are Bobby Blos