He replied, with a smile, “I did not do it on purpose.”
I should have believed him, because I know him; but it displeased me that he should smile, and I thought: “Oh! now that he has had a prize, he has grown saucy!”; and a little while afterwards, to revenge myself, I gave him a jog which made him spoil his page.
Then, all crimson with wrath, “You did that on purpose,” he said to me, and raised his hand. The teacher saw it; he drew it back. But he added: “I shall wait for you outside!”
I felt ill at ease; my wrath had simmered away; I repented. No; Coretti could not have done it intentionally. He is good, I thought. I recalled how I had seen him in his own home; how he had worked and helped his sick mother; and then how heartily he had been welcomed in my house; and how he had pleased my father. What would I not have given not to have said that word to him; not to have insulted him! And I thought of the advice that my father had given to me: “Have you done wrong?”—“Yes.”—“Then beg his pardon.” But this I did not dare to do; I was ashamed to humiliate myself. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, and I saw his coat ripped on the shoulder,—perhaps because he had carried too much wood,—and I felt that I loved him. I said to myself, “Courage!” But the words, “pardon me,” stuck in my throat.
He looked at me askance from time to time, but seemed more grieved than angry. And I looked crossly at him, to show him that I was not afraid.
