“If old Mrs. Oram brings Neddy back to-day, don’t punish him.”
“Very well. It shall be as you say,” answered the schoolmaster.
That evening Mr. Jonas called to see me. He was a better man, on the whole, than he was a schoolmaster. Out of school he was kind and genial, but as a teacher he was not always as wise and as patient as he should be. Like Neddy’s grandmother, he believed more in the power of force than he did in the power of kindness. His rod was always in sight, and too often in his hand. He ruled by fear, and not by love.
“Did Neddy come back to school?” I asked.
Mr. Jonas shook his head gravely.
“Oh, mother,” cried my little girl, rushing into the room just at this moment, “Neddy Oram’s lost or run away!”
She stopped on seeing Mr. Jonas; her face, that had been a little pale, flushed deeply, and her eyes had an angry flash. “And it’s all your fault!” she added, with a sudden brave indignation in her tiny voice as she turned on the schoolmaster and looked at him steadily.
“My fault!” said the schoolmaster, in a startled voice.
“Yes, sir. It’s all your fault. If you hadn’t made him stand on one leg until he was almost tired to death, and switched him when he put the other down, and if you hadn’t said you’d cut the skin off of him, he wouldn’t have run away.”
And here little Carrie burst out crying, and buried her face, sobbing, in my lap.