ROSE MEETS DR. THATCHER
The school-house in Dutcher's coulé, like most country school-houses, was a squalid little den. It was as gray as a rock and as devoid of beauty as a dry goods box. It sat in the midst of the valley and had no trees, to speak of, about it, and in winter it was almost as snow-swept as the school-houses of the prairie.
Its gray clap-boarding was hacked and scarred with knife and stone, and covered with mud and foul marks. A visitor who had turned in from the sun-smit winter road paused before knocking and looked at the walls and the door with a feeling of mirth and sadness. Was there no place to escape the obscene outcome of sexual passion?
Dr. Thatcher had been a pupil here in this same school-house more than twenty years before, and the droning, shuffling sound within had a marvelous reawakening power. He was a physician in Madison now, and was in the coulé on a visit.
His knock on the door brought a timid-looking man to the door.
"I'd like to come in awhile," said the Doctor.
"Certainly, certainly," replied the teacher, much embarrassed by the honor.
He brought him the chair he had been sitting on, and helped his visitor remove his coat and hat.
"Now don't mind me, I want to see everything go on just as if I were not here."
"Very well, that's the way we do," the teacher replied, and returned to his desk and attempted, at least, to carry out his visitor's request.