The girl drew a long breath and then looked up at Roger with calm, grave eyes. People said that even more than in face and figure Margeret Radpath was beginning to resemble her father.
“We did no harm,” she said quietly, “and we will take what comes.”
She said nothing to Master Simon of the brewing trouble, and on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday went bravely up to the schoolhouse, trying not to think of what was to come. Thursday arrived, a day of lowering clouds, of sharp, bitter winds and flurries of snow. As the day passed, even the children seemed to feel a restlessness that grew greater and greater as the closing time came near. Even before the last hour was at an end, Roger Bardwell entered quietly and seated himself near the fireplace. A few minutes later there came a loud rap at the door. It opened to reveal Goodman Allen.
“I thought, Mistress Radpath,” he said, shuffling awkwardly upon the threshold, “that I would stop here a moment and hear how that lad of mine is faring with his lessons.”
“Yes, come in,” said Margeret, “warm yourself by the fire and you shall hear your boy presently.”
Before he could be seated, another man had followed him, naming the same errand, then another and another, until the room was crowded. Through the window, Margeret could see, with sinking heart, more and more dark figures hurrying through the snow and down the schoolhouse lane. A tall, stolid-faced Indian, wrapped in his blanket, slipped in among the rest, but was noticed little, since curiosity often brought these warriors from the forest whenever they saw a crowd gather. Margeret, glancing at him hastily, had a vague feeling that his face was one she knew, but of that she could not be certain. Last of all the company, Samuel Skerry came in and stood, scowling, by the fireplace.
The winter darkness fell so early that the candles had to be lighted before the lessons were over. The children looked about, bewildered, at the rows of sober faces, but they stood nobly by their teacher, their dear Mistress Margeret, and spoke their learning manfully. Finally the hour struck, the bell rang, and school was over.
“And now,” said Margeret, her spirit, after the long strain, flaring suddenly high in the face of that silent, waiting assemblage, “have you aught to say, my Masters?”
There was an embarrassed silence for a moment, broken at last by Skerry’s harsh voice.
“I say,” he began, “that a woman has no place as mistress of a school. Look yonder at the birch rods, brothers, how they gather dust and cobwebs. She never uses them, nor has she strength to do so if she would.”