"I do not understand you, Mr Bone," said the young mistress, longing for the interview to come to an end; but he went on, speaking angrily, and ignoring her words-- "When old Widow Marley died, I said to Mallow and the rest of 'em, `Knock a hole through the brick wall,' I said; `make one school of it; mix 'em all up together, boys and gals. Give me another ten a year, and I'll teach the lot;' but they wouldn't do it. Said they must have a trained mistress; and here you are." "Yes, I am here," said Sage Portlock, rather feebly, for she had nothing else to say. "Only the other day you were a thin strip of a girl. Deny it if you can!" "I do not deny it, Mr Bone," said Sage, determining to be firm, and speaking a little more boldly. "No," he continued, in his husky tones, "you can't deny it. Then you leave Miss Quittenton's school, and your people send you to town for two years to be trained; and now here you are again." Sage Portlock bowed, and looked longingly at the door, hoping for some interruption, but none came. "And now--" began the old master. "Mary Smith, take the large ink-bottle into the boys' school," said the young mistress, quickly; and the girl went to the school cupboard, took out the great wicker-covered bottle, and was moving toward the door, when the old master caught her by the shoulder, and held her back. "Stop!" he said sharply. "Take it myself. Ha! ha!" Sage started and coloured, for the children were amused. "Ha, ha!--Ha--ha--ha--ha--ha!" The old man continued his hoarse cachinnation, ending by wiping his eyes on a washed-out ragged old print cotton handkerchief. "It makes me laugh," he said. "Young Ross--him I taught to write-- evening lessons up at his father's house. Young Luke Ross! warmed him up like a viper in my breast to turn and sting me. Ha, ha, ha! Master here!" "For shame, Mr Bone," exclaimed the young mistress, indignantly. "Mr Ross never sought for the engagement. It was only after Mr Mallow's invitation that he accepted the post." "Mr Mallow's invitation, eh? The Rev Eli Mallow, eh? Better look after his sons. Nice wild sons! Nice old prophet he is. Better look after his boys." "And only the other day when he was down, young Mr Ross said that he was doubtful about taking the post, and thought of declining it after all." "Told you so, eh? Ha--ha--ha! Not he. Sweet-hearting, eh? Ha--ha-- ha! Very well, when he comes, knock a hole through the wall, and make one school of it, eh? Get married. Fine thing for the school. Faugh!" Sage Portlock's face was now scarlet, and she was about to utter some indignant remonstrance against the old man's words, when, to her intense relief, he took the ink-bottle roughly from the girl's hand, and stumped with it to the door.