He tied the horse to a sapling with one of the lines. Then he drew his cotton gloves a little closer over his hands, buttoned his long black coat down to its last button, and stood out in the road to await the coming of the School-teacher. The children and the School-teacher stopped when they saw him. The pleasant laughing voices ceased. The children gathered around the School-teacher. The smallest ones came close up and took hold of his hands. The minister addressed the Schoolteacher. His voice was high and sharp. “Do you know what the school children have done?” The School-teacher regarded the minister with his deep, calm, gray-blue eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Did you know that they were going to do it?” “Yes.” “Did you try to prevent it?” “No.” The lines in the minister's face hardened. “That's all I wanted to know,” he said. “It is now perfectly evident that you are no fit person to have charge of school children. The community must get rid of you.” He turned about in the road, untied his horse, got into his buggy and took up the lines. He raised one of the lines in his cotton-gloved hand to bring it down on the horse's back, but he paused with his arm extended, and turned about toward the School-teacher. He thrust his head to one side. His defective eye straining to see. “Do you have any fear of God at all?” he said. The School-teacher's calm, gentle voice did not change, it did not hesitate. “No,” he said, “none at all.” CHAPTER XI |ON SATURDAY morning the miller hailed the doctor as he was passing the mill. “Are you goin' over to Black's?” she called. The doctor stopped his horse. “Yes,” he said, “they sent me word to come.” “By Jonas the first of the week?” “Yes.” “For to see old Jerry's eye?” “Yes.” “Well, it ain't no use for you to go.” “Did his eye get well of itself?” inquired the doctor. “No, it didn't git well of itself,” replied the woman. “It never would have got well of itself. Ole Jerry's been set-tin' around with that eye tied up ever since the day that he thrashed out his wheat. He'd a-been blind in it all the rest of his life if it hadn't a-been for the School-teacher.” The doctor turned around in his saddle. “What did the School-teacher do to him?” he said. “He cured him,” replied the miller. The doctor had ridden past the mill before he stopped. Now he rode hack. The miller stood on the porch before the door. The doctor sat on his horse in the road, the loose bridle rein over his crooked arm, his good hand resting heavily on the pommel of the saddle. “How did he cure him?” inquired the doctor. “I don't know how he cured him,” replied the miller. “Didn't you hear?” said the doctor. “Yes, I heard,” replied the miller. “Well,” said the doctor, “what did you hear?”