On a low stone wall by the roadside Ruth Heywood sat in solemn meditation. With melancholy eyes she watched the door of the little red school house a hundred yards away. On the porch of that school house shivered Zac, also waiting. He, too, kept his eyes on the door, but he had no intention of rebuking the prisoner--should he ever appear. Why try to improve an already perfect thing? Above Ruth's head the North Wind, moaning through the leafless branches of the maples, played dirge-like airs. Now, late in the afternoon, the darkening sky seemed bearing down upon the snow-covered earth. And Ruth's thoughts were all in harmony with the world about her. There was reason for a joyless face. More experienced women than Ruth had found sorrow and defeat in acting as guardian angel to erring males. Other children had gone home. Cyrus was being held in punishment. And the punishment was just. The Guardian Angel disliked this business, but Cyrus had no mother, aunt or sister, and his father, being only a man, did not realize the situation. Therefore, it seemed clear to Ruth that she was the chosen instrument by which Cyrus was to be rescued from a career of shame and failure. At last the boy appeared. Zac bounced with joy, stirring the snowy air with cries of welcome. And Cyrus, glad as any other prisoner to be again at liberty, came running after. Ruth walked out into the road and stood before him. As he stopped there was a smile on his face, the old familiar smile of the guilty, who hope to soften the face of Justice. But Justice was not beguiled. On the face of the Guardian Angel came no returning smile. Instead, with accusing eyes, she slowly shook her head. "Cyrus, you ought to be ashamed." "Why?" "You know very well why. You are bad, very bad, and teacher was right to keep you after school and punish you." Cyrus gave up smiling. He reached forth and toyed with one of the horn buttons on the Guardian Angel's coat. "I don't think I am bad just because I hate that geography." "It's your duty to learn it whether you hate it or not. You will grow up an ignorant, good-for-nothing man unless you study your lessons. Everybody knows that. You ought to go straight home and tell your father you have been kept after school. Just tell him all about it. Will you?" There was a puckering of the boy's mouth, but no answer. "If you were stupid, and couldn't learn if you tried, it would be different, but you are just perverse and--and bad. If you don't do better I shall just go and tell your father myself." "Oh, Ruthy! You wouldn't do that!" And he let go the button and took a backward step, as one who shrinks from a faithless friend. "But it's for your own good, Drowsy. And, besides, teacher will tell him if I don't." "I s'pose she would." "You don't want to grow up and know less than anybody else--even less than school children?" Cyrus smiled. "That _would_ be funny!"