“He’s been to a blab school, sir,” the other children declared. “He don’t know how to study no other way. Once you’ve got the blab way o’ l’arning, you can’t do no other way.” Mr. Rowantree grasped the meaning of the statement. He had heard of the “blab schools” where each pupil studied his lesson aloud, often at the top of his lungs. He looked about him expecting to see the Coulter crowd doubled up with scornful mirth. But he saw nothing of the sort. The children there understood the difficulties of Skully. Nay, they firmly believed that when once the blab habit was settled on a person it could not be got rid of. They expected to see the schoolmaster fall into a terrible rage and they naturally looked forward to it with a not altogether innocent glee. But Mr. Rowantree, it seemed, could be a surprising person. “I beg your pardon,” he said to Skully politely. “I didn’t understand. It will be rather bothersome for you to break off the habit of studying aloud, but of course you must, for it puts other people out very much, don’t you see? This morning I will allow you to move your lips as you study, but you must not speak aloud. By to-morrow I shall hope that you can study without even moving your lips.” “Yessir,” said poor Skully, and he tried as hard as ever he could with his untutored, eager little mind, to do as he should in the school which he so very much wished to attend. But it was hard work, and from time to time his high-pitched singsong voice would break from the whisper to which it was held in leash and would cause Mr. Rowantree to hold up a warning finger. Then, Skully, scarlet-faced and wretched, would try again. This, however, was not the only excitement of the day. Just before noon the instructor was surprised to see a very long, very thin, very dust-colored man appear in the doorway. It was not only his homespun clothes which appeared dust-colored. His hair and skin, even his eyes, had a faded yellowish hue. He leaned forward, peering in the room curiously, his high, arched nose seeming to smell out what his eyes did not at first discover. Then he shot out his long arm and pointed at little Mrs. McIntosh, where she sat, her worn yet girlish face white with nervousness, and said: “I want you-all to git out of this.” For a moment no one spoke. The woman had not arisen. A little look of trembling bravery shone in her eyes. She seemed to be seeking for some words in which to express her thoughts and not finding them. “You hear?” cried the man. “You-all git out of that thar seat and come to home whar you belong. Thissen ain’t no place for a married woman. You hear?” Mr. Rowantree had been stroking his long ruddy mustache with his white hand, waiting, it seemed, for developments. But now he came forward, bearing upon his handsome face a look not unlike that he had turned upon Skully a while before. “Mrs. McIntosh is your wife, I suppose,” he said in his easy, pleasant way.