"'Bout twenty-two years," answered the driver; and, being started, he prattled away, telling the story of his pitiful, tragic life—a life of incessant toil and hardship. Men cheated and trampled upon him; society and government ignored him; science and religion never knew him, and cared nothing for him—and yet this atom bore it all with unapplauded heroism.
There was something in his voice which made the hearts of his hearers ache. Ida glanced up at Bradley now and then, at the most dramatic points, and they seemed to grow nearer together in their sympathy.
"There's the schoolhouse," said the driver joyously, pointing at a dim red light ahead. They had been riding for nearly an hour across the treeless swells of prairie, and the wind had penetrated their very blood. Ida was shivering, and Bradley was suffering with her out of sympathy. He longed to fold her close in his arms and shield her from the wind.
Suddenly the schoolhouse loomed upon their eyes. It was a bare little box, set on the wind-swept crest of a hill, not a tree to shelter it from the winds of winter or the sun of summer. Teams were hitched about at the fences, and others could be heard on the hard ground, clattering along the lanes. Men coming across the fields on foot could be heard talking. The plain seemed cold and desolate and illimitable.
Bradley helped Ida to alight, and hurried her towards the open door, from which the hum of talk came forth. They found the room crammed with men and women—the women all on one side of the room and the men as decorously on the other, or standing about the huge cannon stove, that was filled with soft coal, and sending out a flood of heat and gas. They stopped talking when they saw the strangers enter, and gazed at them curiously.
Then a tall man, with a military cut of beard, pushed his way forward.
"Good-evenin', Sisto' Wilboo, I'm right glad to see you."
"I am glad to see you, Brother Barker."
"I must apologize fo' not coming myself."
"This is Mr. Talcott," Ida interrupted, introducing Bradley.