But the lady had her suspicions nevertheless, and she marched with the erectness of a grenadier to where Lavinia Fenton sat with her eyes fixed upon her copy book, apparently absorbed in inscribing over and over again the moral maxim at the top of the page, and, it may be hoped, engrafting it on her mind.
The young lady's industry did not deceive Miss Pinwell.

Lavinia Fenton was the black sheep--lamb perhaps is a more fitting word, she was but seventeen--of the school.

But somehow her peccadilloes were always forgiven.

She had a smile against which severity--even Miss Pinwell's--was powerless.
"What were you doing just now when you were not writing ?" The head was slowly raised.

The wealth of wavy brown hair fell back from the broad smooth brow.