Cyrus.

CHAPTER XV
THE RAPE OF THE LOCK

June was crowded full of interest that year. We gathered in with
its sheaf of fragrant days the choicest harvest of childhood.

Things happened right along. Cecily declared she hated to go to
sleep for fear she might miss something. There were so many dear

delights along the golden road to give us pleasure--the earth
dappled with new blossom, the dance of shadows in the fields, the

rustling, rain-wet ways of the woods, the faint fragrance in
meadow lanes, liltings of birds and croon of bees in the old

orchard, windy pipings on the hills, sunset behind the pines,
limpid dews filling primrose cups, crescent moons through

darklings boughs, soft nights alight with blinking stars. We
enjoyed all these boons, unthinkingly and light-heartedly, as

children do. And besides these, there was the absorbing little
drama of human life which was being enacted all around us, and in

which each of us played a satisfying part--the gay preparations
for Aunt Olivia's mid-June wedding, the excitement of practising

for the concert with which our school-teacher, Mr. Perkins, had
elected to close the school year, and Cecily's troubles with Cyrus

Brisk, which furnished unholy mirth for the rest of us, though
Cecily could not see the funny side of it at all.

Matters went from bad to worse in the case of the irrepressible
Cyrus. He continued to shower Cecily with notes, the spelling of

which showed no improvement; he worried the life out of her by
constantly threatening to fight Willy Fraser--although, as

Felicity sarcastically pointed out, he never did it.
"But I'm always afraid he will," said Cecily, "and it would be

such a DISGRACE to have two boys fighting over me in school."
"You must have encouraged Cyrus a little in the beginning or he'd

never have been so persevering," said Felicity unjustly.
"I never did!" cried outraged Cecily. "You know very well,

Felicity King, that I hated Cyrus Brisk ever since the very first
time I saw his big, fat, red face. So there!"

"Felicity is just jealous because Cyrus didn't take a notion to
her instead of you, Sis," said Dan.

"Talk sense!" snapped Felicity.
"If I did you wouldn't understand me, sweet little sister,"

rejoined aggravating Dan.
Finally Cyrus crowned his iniquities by stealing the denied lock

of Cecily's hair. One sunny afternoon in school, Cecily and Kitty
Marr asked and received permission to sit out on the side bench

before the open window, where the cool breeze swept in from the
green fields beyond. To sit on this bench was always considered a

treat, and was only allowed as a reward of merit; but Cecily and
Kitty had another reason for wishing to sit there. Kitty had read

in a magazine that sun-baths were good for the hair; so both she
and Cecily tossed their long braids over the window-sill and let

them hang there in the broiling sun-shine. And while Cecily sat
thus, diligentlyworking a fraction sum on her slate, that base

Cyrus asked permission to go out, having previously borrowed a
pair of scissors from one of the big girls who did fancy work at

the noon recess. Outside, Cyrus sneaked up close to the window
and cut off a piece of Cecily's hair.

This rape of the lock did not produce quite such terrible
consequences as the more famous one in Pope's poem, but Cecily's

soul was no less agitated than Belinda's. She cried all the way
home from school about it, and only checked her tears when Dan

declared he'd fight Cyrus and make him give it up.
"Oh, no, You mustn't." said Cecily, struggling with her sobs. "I

won't have you fighting on my account for anything. And besides,
he'd likely lick you--he's so big and rough. And the folks at

home might find out all about it, and Uncle Roger would never give
me any peace, and mother would be cross, for she'd never believe

it wasn't my fault. It wouldn't be so bad if he'd only taken a
little, but he cut a great big chunk right off the end of one of

the braids. Just look at it. I'll have to cut the other to make
them fair--and they'll look so awful stubby."

But Cyrus' acquirement of the chunk of hair was his last triumph.
His downfall was near; and, although it involved Cecily in a most

humiliating experience, over which she cried half the following
night, in the end she confessed it was worth undergoing just to

get rid of Cyrus.
Mr. Perkins was an exceedinglystrict disciplinarian. No

communication of any sort was permitted between his pupils during
school hours. Anyone caught violating this rule was promptly

punished by the infliction of one of the weird penances for which
Mr. Perkins was famous, and which were generally far worse than

ordinary whipping.
One day in school Cyrus sent a letter across to Cecily. Usually

he left his effusions in her desk, or between the leaves of her
books; but this time it was passed over to her under cover of the

desk through the hands of two or three scholars. Just as Em
Frewen held it over the aisle Mr. Perkins wheeled around from his

station before the blackboard and caught her in the act.
"Bring that here, Emmeline," he commanded.

Cyrus turned quite pale. Em carried the note to Mr. Perkins. He
took it, held it up, and scrutinized the address.

"Did you write this to Cecily, Emmeline?" he asked.
"No, sir."

"Who wrote it then?"
Em said quite shamelessly that she didn't know--it had just been

passed over from the next row.
"And I suppose you have no idea where it came from?" said Mr.

Perkins, with his frightful, sardonic grin. "Well, perhaps Cecily
can tell us. You may take your seat, Emmeline, and you will

remain at the foot of your spelling class for a week as punishment
for passing the note. Cecily, come here."

Indignant Em sat down and poor, innocent Cecily was haled forth to
public ignominy. She went with a crimson face.

"Cecily," said her tormentor, "do you know who wrote this letter
to you?"

Cecily, like a certain renownedpersonage, could not tell a lie.
"I--I think so, sir," she murmured faintly.

"Who was it?"
"I can't tell you that," stammered Cecily, on the verge of tears.

"Ah!" said Mr. Perkins politely. "Well, I suppose I could easily
find out by opening it. But it is very impolite to open other

people's letters. I think I have a better plan. Since you refuse
to tell me who wrote it, open it yourself, take this chalk, and

copy the contents on the blackboard that we may all enjoy them.
And sign the writer's name at the bottom."

"Oh," gasped Cecily, choosing the lesser of two evils, "I'll tell
you who wrote it--it was--

"Hush!" Mr. Perkins checked her with a gentle motion of his hand.
He was always most gentle when most inexorable. "You did not obey

me when I first ordered you to tell me the writer. You cannot
have the privilege of doing so now. Open the note, take the

chalk, and do as I command you."
Worms will turn, and even meek, mild, obedient little souls like

Cecily may be goaded to the point of wild, sheer rebellion.
"I--I won't!" she cried passionately.

Mr. Perkins, martinet though he was, would hardly, I think, have
inflicted such a punishment on Cecily, who was a favourite of his,

had he known the real nature of that luckless missive. But, as he
afterwards admitted, he thought it was merely a note from some

other girl, of such trifling sort as school-girls are wont to
write; and moreover, he had already committed himself to the