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“Go away—I don’t want you,” she sobbed. “I don’t want any one.”

“Don’t be a stupid old Biddikins,” said Ann in as matter-of-fact a tone as she could command. “What’s the sense of lying on the floor there amongst all the dust and microbes?”

“What’s microbes?” asked Jo.

“A microbe is a funny wriggly little creature—it turns, and twirls, and squirms.”

“Biddy’s a microbe!” said Jo delightedly.

“I’m not.” Biddy gave a violent kick in her sister’s direction.

“Of course she isn’t,” said Ann.

In spite of Biddy’s struggles she still held her, and sat down now in the one easy chair the schoolroom possessed.

“I’ll tell you a story about a very funny little microbe that lived in a teeny weeny hole in the floor.”

Biddy’s struggles subsided. She was still sobbing in a sort of hiccupping fashion, her poor little face all blotched and swollen, but she wanted to hear about the microbe. She liked Ann’s stories.

With the child cradled in her arms, and Jo’s fat jolly face upturned to hers, Ann sat and racked her brains to invent humorous and exciting adventures for the microbe. But to tell the truth this was not easy. Her heart was aching for the child she held. No doubt Biddy had been very rude and very disobedient, but she had seemed so pitifully small and helpless in the grip of that infuriated woman. And Ann knew that Vera Holmes was not merely punishing and correcting the child; she was letting loose some flood of passion within her, in those dreadful