But five o'clock came and the work was done!

More than one or two tears fell slowly on the neat writing on Marjorie's
slate; the schoolroom was cold and she was shivering and hungry. It would
have been such a treat to read the last chapter in the "Lucy" book; she
might have curled her feet underneath her and drawn her shawl closer; but
it was so late, and what would they think at home? She was ashamed to go
home. Her father would look at her from under his eyebrows, and her
mother would exclaim, "Why, Marjorie!" She would rather that her father
would look at her from under his eyebrows, than that her mother would
say, "Why, _Marjorie!_" Her mother never scolded, and sometimes she
almost wished she would. It would be a relief if somebody would scold her
tonight; she would stick a pin into herself if it would do any good.

_Her_ photograph would not be in the group next time. She looked across
at the framed photograph on the wall; six girls in the group and herself
the youngest--the reward for perfect recitations and perfect deportment
for one year. Her father was so proud of it that he had ordered a copied
picture for himself, and, with a black walnut frame, it was hanging in
the sitting-room at home. The resentment against herself was tugging away
at her heart and drawing miserable lines on her brow and lips--on her
sweet brow and happy lips.

It was a bare, ugly country schoolroom, anyway, with the stained floor,
the windows with two broken panes, and the unpainted desks with
innumerable scars made by the boys' jack-knives, and Mr. Holmes was
unreasonable, anyway, to give her such a hard punishment, and she didn't
care if she had been kept in, anyway!