THE [SQUIRE]'S SIXPENCE.
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.