Poppie'll nose it out, and come poking up. Oh! Good gracious!"
Gipsy might well exclaim, for there, just behind them, stood Miss Poppleton herself. She had been walking along the passage, and attracted by the smell of burning, she had opened the door quietly to ascertain the cause. There was a moment of awful silence. Eleven sinners felt themselves most horribly caught.
"Who brought these things here?" demanded Miss Poppleton, eyeing the tray and its paraphernalia.
"I did. I got them from the kitchen," answered Gipsy. "We always made Fudge in the schoolroom in Dorcas City," she added, with a spice of defiance in her voice.
"You won't here!" returned Miss Poppleton grimly. "Take those things back to the kitchen at once. You will stay in from hockey to-morrow, and learn a page of French poetry. Each of you others" (glaring at the crestfallen circle) "will copy fifty lines of Paradise Lost, and bring them to me before Thursday. If you can't be trusted, I shall have to send one of the Seniors to sit with you in the evenings."
With this awful threat she departed, having first seen the exit of Gipsy with the tray.
"I knew Gipsy was bound to get into a scrape sooner or later," groaned Dilys.
"And we're in too, worse luck!" wailed Daisy Scatcherd. "Fifty lines is no joke!"
"It's ironical of her to choose Paradise Lost when the Fudge had just boiled over!" said Hetty.
