The men who had come to insult and annoy knew well that if they offered further violence to the young teacher and the unconscious child, they would have to reckon with John Clayton, Kenneth Hastings and John Harding. Wordless messages were telegraphed from eye to eye, and one by one the ruffians disappeared. Esther still knelt by Wathemah. He had been stunned by the fall. Water revived him; and after a time, he was able to walk into the schoolhouse. Oh, little child of the Open, so many years misunderstood, how generously you respond with love to a little human kindness! How bitterly you resent a wrong! Afterwards, in describing what Miss Bright did during this trying ordeal, a Scotch miner said: "The lass's smile fair warmed the heart. It was na muckle, but when she comforted the Indian bairn I could na be her enemy." As Esther entered the door, she saw two middle-aged Scotch women clasp hands and exchange words of greeting. She did not dream then, nor did she know until months after, how each of these longed for her old home in Scotland; nor did she know, at that time, how the heart of each one of them had warmed towards her. Several women and children and a few men followed the teacher into the schoolroom. All looked around curiously. Esther looked into the faces before her, some dull, others hard; some worn by toil and exposure; others disfigured by dissipation. They were to her, above everything else, human beings to be helped; and ministration to their needs became of supreme interest to her. There were several Scotch people in the audience. As the books and lesson leaves were passed, Esther gave out a hymn the children knew, and which she fancied might be familiar to the Scotch people present,--"My Ain Countrie." She lifted her guitar, played a few opening chords, and sang, "I am far frae my hame, an' I'm weary aftenwhiles For the longed-for hame-bringin', an' my Faither's welcome smiles; An' I'll ne'er be fu' content, until mine een do see The gowden gates o' Heaven, an' my ain countrie." At first a few children sang with her, but finding their elders did not sing, they, too, stopped to listen. The two Scotch women, who sat side by side, listened intently. One reached out and clasped the hand of the other; and then, over the cheeks furrowed by toil, privation and heart-hunger, tears found their unaccustomed way. The singer sang to the close of the stanza, then urged all to sing with her. A sturdy Scotchman, after clearing his throat, spoke up: "Please, Miss, an' will ye sing it all through y'rsel? It reminds me o' hame." Applause followed. The singer smiled, then lifting her guitar, sang in a musical voice, the remaining stanzas.