The old man turned the leaves of the memorandum book, wetting his forefinger in his mouth, until he found a blank page. Then he laid the book on his knee, pressed the case of the pencil, touched the tip of the lead to his tongue, and laboriously wrote. “This schoolhouse is closed, by order of P. Hamrick, Trustee.” He tore the leaf out, rose and pinned it to the door. It was some distance through the grove of ancient trees to the road, and he started to return. In spite of his bulk and his stiff leg he endeavored to hurry. He thrust his stout stick out before him on the path, and swung forward, his weight forcing the point of the stick into the earth. In order that he might not fall, and to find each time a safe place for the stick, he moved with his eyes on the ground. Presently the end of the stick slipped on a pebble, and he lurched forward. He saved himself from falling by grasping the crook, of the stick with both hands, tottered a moment, then he regained his balance and looked up. The School-teacher stood before him. The old man remained holding to the stick, breathing with difficulty. The School-teacher was some distance away, motionless in the path. He had evidently seen the man coming from the schoolhouse door, and had stopped there in the path to observe him. The School-teacher spoke. “Have you been to the schoolhouse?” he said. “Yes,” replied the man, “I've--I've been out to the schoolhouse.” “To see me?” said the School-teacher. “Well, no,” replied the man, “not exactly to see you.” “To see the school?” “Well, no, not exactly to see the school.” Then he added, “I'm the trustee. I've been looking over the schoolhouse. I think I'll be goin' on.” “Why do you hurry?” said the Schoolteacher. “I must be gettin' home,” said the old man. He reached forward with his stick, but again the point of it slipped and he nearly fell. The School-teacher looked past the man toward the schoolhouse. “What is that on the door?” he said. The old man turned around. The leaf from the memorandum book, fastened with the pin, fluttered on the door, as though 't were a living thing struggling to free itself. “That's a piece of paper,” said the old man. “Who put it there?” “I did.” “What for?” “It's a kind of notice.” “A notice to me?” “A notice about the schoolhouse.” “Is there anything wrong with the schoolhouse?” “Well,” said the old man, “I don't think it's just exactly safe.” “Not safe for the children?” “Well, no, it mightn't he safe for the children.” “What is wrong with the schoolhouse?” said the School-teacher. The old man began to talk. “Well,” he said, “it's got a good roof. Old Dix put that roof on. Every one of the clapboards is planed with a drawin' knife. An' the weatherboardin' is good. It was seasoned weatherboardin'. But the floor might be bad.” “I have mended the floor,” replied the School-teacher. “It ain't so much the floor,” continued the old man. “It's the sills. The sills might be rotten.”