Patience Mather was saying the seven-multiplication table, when she
heard a heavy step in the entry.
"That is Squire Bean," whispered her friend, Martha Joy, who stood at
her elbow.
Patience stopped short in horror. Her especial bugbear in mathematics
was eight-times-seven; she was coming toward it fast--could she
remember it, with old Squire Bean looking at her?
"Go on," said the teacher severely. She was quite young, and also
stood in some awe of Squire Bean, but she did not wish her pupils to
discover it, so she pretended to ignore that step in the entry. Squire
Bean walked with a heavy gilt-headed cane which always went clump,
clump, at every step; beside he shuffled--one could always tell who
was coming.
"Seven times seven," begun Patience trembling--then the door
opened--there stood Squire Bean.
The teacher rose promptly. She tried to be very easy and natural, but
her pretty round cheeks turned red and white by turns.
"Good-morning, Squire Bean," said she. Then she placed a chair on the
platform for him.
"_Good_-morning," said he, and seated himself in a lumbering way--he
was rather stiff with rheumatism. He was a large old man in a green
camlet cloak with brass buttons.
"You may go on with the exercises," said he to the teacher, after he
had adjusted himself and wiped his face solemnly with a great red
handkerchief.
"Go on, Patience," said the teacher.
So Patience piped up in her little weak soprano: "Seven times seven
are forty-nine. Eight times seven are"--She stopped short. Then she
begun over again--"Eight times seven"--
The class with toes on the crack all swayed forward to look at
her, the pupils at the foot stepped off till they swung it into a
half-circle. Hands came up and gyrated wildly.
"Back on the line!" said the teacher sternly. Then they stepped back,
but the hands indicative of superior knowledge still waved, the coarse
jacket-sleeves and the gingham apron-sleeves slipping back from the
thin childish wrists.
"Eight times seven are eighty-nine," declared Patience desperately.
The hands shook frantically, some of the owners stepped off the line
again in their eagerness.
Patience's cheeks were red as poppies, her eyes were full of tears.
"You may try once more, Patience," said the teacher, who was
distressed herself. She feared lest Squire Bean might think that it
was her fault, and that she was not a competent teacher, because
Patience Mather did not know eight-times-seven.
So Patience started again--"Eight times seven"--She paused for a
mighty mental effort--she must get it right this time. "Six"--she
began feebly.
"What!" said Squire Bean suddenly, in a deep voice which sounded like
a growl.
Then all at once poor little Patience heard a whisper sweet as an
angel's in her ear: "Fifty-six."
"Eight times seven are fifty-six," said she convulsively.
[Illustration: "SIX"--SHE BEGAN FEEBLY.]
"Right," said the teacher with a relieved look. The hands went down.
Patience stood with her neat little shoes toeing out on the crack. It
was over. She had not failed before Squire Bean. For a few minutes,
she could think of nothing but that.
The rest of the class had their weak points, moreover their strong
points, overlooked in the presence of the company. The first thing
Patience knew, ever so many had missed in the nine-table, and she had
gone up to the head.
Standing there, all at once a terrible misgiving seized her. "I
wouldn't have gone to the head if I hadn't been told," she thought
to herself. Martha was next below her; she knew that question in the
nines, her hand had been up, so had John Allen's and Phoebe Adams'.
This was the last class before recess. Patience went soberly out in
the yard with the other girls. There was a little restraint over all
the scholars. They looked with awe at the Squire's horse and chaise.
The horse was tied after a novel fashion, an invention of the Squire's
own. He had driven a gimlet into the schoolhouse wall, and tied his
horse to it with a stout rope. Whenever the Squire drove he carried
with him his gimlet, in case there should be no hitching-post.
Occasionally house-owners rebelled, but it made no difference; the
next time the Squire had occasion to stop at their premises there was
another gimlet-hole in the wall. Few people could make their way good
against Squire Bean's.
There were a great many holes in the schoolhouse walls, for the Squire
made frequent visits; he was one of the committee and considered
himself very necessary for the well-being of the school. Indeed if he
had frankly spoken his mind, he would probably have admitted that in
his estimation the school could not be properly kept one day without
his assistance.
[Illustration: "WHAT!" SAID SQUIRE BEAN SUDDENLY.]
Patience stood with her back against the school fence, and watched
the others soberly. The girls wanted her to play "Little Sally Waters
sitting in the sun," but she said no, she didn't want to play.
Martha took hold of her arm and tried to pull her into the ring, but
she held back.
"What is the matter?" said Martha.
"Nothing," Patience said, but her face was full of trouble. There was
a little wrinkle between her reflective brown eyes, and she drew in
her under lip after a way she had when disturbed.
When the bell rang, the scholars filed in with the greatest order and
decorum. Even the most frisky boys did no more than roll their eyes
respectfully in the Squire's direction as they passed him, and they
tiptoed on their bare feet in the most cautious manner.
The Squire sat through the remaining exercises, until it was time to
close the school.
"You may put up your books," said the teacher. There was a rustle and
clatter, then a solemn hush. They all sat with their arms folded,
looking expectantly at Squire Bean. The teacher turned to him. Her
cheeks were very red, and she was very dignified, but her voice shook
a little.
"Won't you make some remarks to the pupils?" said she.
Then the Squire rose and cleared his throat. The scholars did not pay
much attention to what he said, although they sat still, with their
eyes riveted on his face. But when, toward the close of his remarks,
he put his hand in his pocket, and a faint jingling was heard, a
thrill ran over the school.
The Squire pulled out two silver sixpences, and held them up
impressively before the children. Through a hole in each of them
dangled a palm-leaf strand; and the Squire's own initial was stamped
on both.
"Thomas Arnold may step this way," said the Squire.
Thomas Arnold had acquitted himself well in geography, and to him the
Squire duly presented one of the sixpences.
Thomas bobbed, and pattered back to his seat with all his mates
staring and grinning at him.
Then Patience Mather's heart jumped--Squire Bean was bidding her step
that way, on account of her going to the head of the arithmetic class.
She sat still. There was a roaring in her ears. Squire Bean spoke
again. Then the teacher interposed. "Patience," said she, "did you not
hear what Squire Bean said? Step this way."
Then Patience rose and dragged slowly down the aisle. She hung her
head, she dimly heard Squire Bean speaking; then the sixpence touched
her hand. Suddenly Patience looked up. There was a vein of heroism in
the little girl. Not far back, some of her kin had been brave fighters
in the Revolution. Now their little descendant went marching up to her
own enemy in her own way. She spoke right up before Squire Bean.
"I'd rather you'd give it to some one else," said she with a curtesy.
"It doesn't belong to me. I wouldn't have gone to the head if I hadn't
cheated."
Patience's cheeks were white, but her eyes flashed. Squire Bean
gasped, and turned it into a cough. Then he began asking her
questions. Patience answered unflinchingly. She kept holding the
sixpence toward him.
Finally he reached out and gave it a little push back.
"Keep it," said he; "keep it, keep it. I don't give it to you for
going to the head, but because you are an honest and truthful child."
Patience blushed pink to her little neck. She curtesied deeply and
returned to her seat, the silver sixpence dangling from her agitated
little hand. She put her head down on her desk, and cried, now it was
all over, and did not look up till school was dismissed, and Martha
Joy came and put her arm around her and comforted her.
The two little girls were very close friends, and were together all
the time which they could snatch out of school hours. Not long after
the presentation of the sixpence, one night after school, Patience's
mother wanted her to go on an errand to Nancy Gookin's hut.
Nancy Gookin was an Indian woman, who did a good many odd jobs for the
neighbors. Mrs. Mather was expecting company, and she wanted her to
come the next day and assist her about some cleaning.
Patience was usually willing enough, but to-night she demurred. In
fact, she was a little afraid of the Indian woman, who lived all alone
in a little hut on the edge of some woods. Her mother knew it, but it
was a foolish fear, and she did not encourage her in it.
"There is no sense in your being afraid of Nancy," she said with some
severity. "She's a good woman, if she is an Injun, and she is always
to be seen in the meeting-house of a Sabbath day."
As her mother spoke, Patience could see Nancy's dark harsh old face
peering over the pew, where she and some of her nation sat together,
Sabbath days, and the image made her shudder in spite of its
environments. However, she finally put on her little sunbonnet and set
forth. It was a lovely summer twilight; she had only about a quarter
of a mile to go, but her courage failed her more and more at every
step. Martha Joy lived on the way. When she reached her house, she
stopped and begged her to go with her. Martha was obliging; under
ordinary circumstances she would have gone with alacrity, but to-night
she had a hard toothache. She came to the door with her face all tied
up in a hop-poultice. "I'm 'fraid I can't go," she said dolefully.
But Patience begged and begged. "I'll spend my sixpence that uncle
Joseph gave me, and I'll buy you a whole card of peppermints," said
she finally, by way of inducement.
That won the day. Martha got few sweets, and if there was anything
she craved, it was the peppermints, which came, in those days, in big
beautiful cards, to be broken off at will. And to have a whole card!
So poor Martha tied her little napping sunbonnet over her swollen
cheeks, and went with Patience to see Nancy Gookin, who received the
message thankfully, and did not do them the least harm in the world.
Martha had really a very hard toothache. She did not sleep much that
night for all the hop-poultice, and she went to school the next day
feeling tired and cross. She was a nervous little girl, and never bore
illness very well. But to-day she had one pleasant anticipation. She
thought often of that card of peppermints. It had cheered her somewhat
in her uneasy night. She thought that Patience would surely bring them
to school. She came early herself and watched for her. She entered
quite late, just before the bell rang. Martha ran up to her. "I
haven't got the peppermints," said Patience. She had been crying.