"What's the difference?" inquired a third.

"Mighty little, I can tell ye," said Colonel Shears. "The thing's worth seein' to."

A knock on Let.i.tia's door that afternoon was so peremptory that she answered it in haste and some trepidation, yet was not more surprised by the sudden summons than by the man who stepped impressively into the school-room. The pupils turned smilingly to David Shears.

"Your father!" they whispered.

It was, indeed, Colonel Samuel Shears, of the Guards of Liberty. He declined the chair Let.i.tia offered him.

"No," he said, majestically, "I thank you. I prefer"--and here he thrust up his chin by way of emphasis--"to stand."

The school giggled.

"Silence!" said Let.i.tia. "I am ashamed."

Colonel Shears coolly surveyed the array of impudent youths before him, or perhaps not so much surveyed it as turned upon it, slowly and from side to side, the calm defiance of his ma.s.sive jowls. He was well content with that splendid mug of his, which he carried habitually at an angle and elevation well calculated to spread dismay. Upon occasion he could render it the more remarkable by a firm compression of the under-lip, pulled gravely down at the corners into what old b.u.t.ters used to say was a plain attempt "to out-Daniel Webster." The resemblance ended, however, in the regions before described. His brow, it should be stated, did not attest the majesty below them, nor did his small eyes glower with any brooding, owl-like light of wisdom, as he supposed, but bulged rather with a kind of fierce bravado, as if perpetually he were saying to the world:

"Did I hear a snicker?"

Colonel Shears surveyed the school, and then, more slowly, the pictures on the walls about him, turning sharply and fixing his gaze upon Let.i.tia.

[Point One: She was clearly ill at ease.]

[Point Two: A guilty flush had overspread her features.]

"These pictures--" said Colonel Shears, with a wave of his hand in their direction. "Who--if I may be so bold"--and here he raised his voice to the insinuating higher register--"who, may I inquire, paid for them?"

"I did, Mr. Shears," Let.i.tia answered.

"A-ah! _You_ paid for them?"

"I did."

"Very good," he replied. "And now, if I may take the liberty to--"

"Pray don't apologize, Mr. Shears."

The Colonel's crest rose superior to the interruption.

"If I may be permitted," he said, "to repeat my humble question--may I ask, was it your money--that bought--the pictures?"

"It was."

"Your own?"

"My own."

"You are remarkably generous, Miss Primrose."

"I think not," said Let.i.tia, with increasing dignity. "You will pardon me, Mr. Shears, if I continue with my cla.s.ses. After school I shall be at liberty to discuss the matter. Meanwhile, won't you be seated?"

Colonel Shears for the second time declined, but asked permission, humbly he said, to examine the works of art upon the walls. His request was granted, and Let.i.tia proceeded with her cla.s.s. When the inspector had made a critical circuit of the room, and not without certain significant clearings of his throat and some sharp glances intended to catch Let.i.tia unawares, he sniffed the geraniums in the window and picked up a book lying on the corner shelf. He glanced idly at its t.i.tle and--started!--gasped!--and then, horrified, and as if he could not believe his bulging eyes, which fairly pierced the covers of the little volume, he read aloud, in a voice that echoed through the school-room:

"_The Lays of Ancient Rome_--by Thomas--Babington--Macaulay!"

Let.i.tia, whose back was turned, jumped at the unexpected roar behind her, and the Colonel, perceiving that evidence of what he had suspected, now strode forward with an air of triumph, tapping the _Lays_ with his heavy fore-finger.

"Pardon me," he said, his countenance illumined by a truly terrible smile of accusation, "but when, may I ask, did these here heathen tales become a part of the school curriculum?"

"They are not a part of it," replied Let.i.tia.

"Ah! They are _not_ part of it! You admit it, then? Then may I ask when you _made_ them a part of it, Miss Primrose?"

"The stories of Roman heroes--" Let.i.tia began.

"That is not my question. That is not my humble question. _When_ did these here Romish--"

"Mr. Shears," Let.i.tia interposed, flushed, but speaking in a quiet tone she sometimes used, and which the Colonel might well have heeded had he known her, "I observe that you are not familiar with Macaulay. I shall be pleased to loan you the volume, to take home with you and read at leisure. You will find it charming."

She turned abruptly to the cla.s.s behind her.

"We will take for to-morrow's lesson the examples on page one hundred and thirty-three."

The Colonel glared a moment at the stiff little back before him, and then at the book, which he slipped resolutely into his pocket. A dozen strides brought him to the door, where he turned grandly with his hand upon the k.n.o.b.

"I bid you," he said, with a fine, ironical lowering of the under-lip, and bowing slightly, "good-day, ma'am," and the door closed noisily behind him. There was a t.i.ttering among the desks. Young David Shears, red-faced and scowling, dropped his eyes before his school-mates' gaze.

Let.i.tia tapped sharply on her bell.

That evening the president of the school-board called and talked long and earnestly with Let.i.tia in our parlor. Mr. Roach was a furniture dealer by trade, a leading citizen by profession--a tight, little, sparrow-like man, who had risen by dint of much careful eying of the social and political weather to a place of honor in the village councils. He was considered safe and conservative, which was merely another way of saying that he never committed himself on any question, public or private, till he had learned which way the wind was blowing.

He smiled a good deal, said nothing that anybody could remember, and voted with the majority. Out of grat.i.tude the majority had rewarded him, and he was now the custodian of our youth--the sentinel, alert and fearful of the slightest shadow, starting even at the sound of his own footfall on the Ramparts of the Republic, as Colonel Shears once called our public schools. He had come, therefore, under the shadow of the night, but out of kindness, as he himself explained, to advise the daughter of an old friend--and in a voice so low and cautious that Dove, seated in the room beyond, heard nothing but a soothing murmur in response to Let.i.tia's spirited but respectful tones. In departing, however, he was heard to say:

"Oh, by-the-way--er--I think you had better not mention my calling, Miss Primrose. Better not mention it, I guess. It--er--hum--might do harm, you know. You understand."

"Perfectly," replied Let.i.tia. "Good-night." When the door was closed she turned to Dove.

"What do you think that little--that man wants?" she asked.

"Don't know, I'm sure."

"Wants me to take down all my pictures--"

"Your pictures!"

"Yes--and remove all books but text-books from the school-room. And listen: he says my geraniums--fancy! my poor little red geraniums!--are 'not provided for in the curriculum.'"

"The curriculum!" cried Dove, hysterically.