'Well, my dear,' I remember her saying eagerly to him one day, when it was so hot that everything and everybody had gone wrong in school, and the sound of a scuffle had reached her from afar; 'Well, brother, I trust you haven't spared the rod to-day.' 'Why, Janet,'--he pushed back the hair from his forehead,--'it's very hot, and everybody feels cross. I'm sure I do.' 'Caleb!' in an awful voice. 'Don't you believe in atmospheric influences?' asked Master Caleb, who was rather fond of bringing out a hard word now and then. 'Atmospheric nonsense,' said Mrs. Janet, knitting furiously. He stood at the open door watching the great thunder-clouds that came marching across the sky to the battle. Cuthbert and I had not gone home to dinner because of the coming storm, the first heavy rain-drops of which were beginning to fall sullenly. 'To talk of such-like heathenish things,' burst out Mrs. Janet presently, 'before your scholars too.' 'Heathenish things--electricity. I will prove to you----' 'Boys,' she went on unheeding, 'the weather is always good weather, and no one ought to feel different in hot weather or in cold, or whether it rains or the sun shines. No, Caleb, I don't care what your books say.' For Master Caleb had brought a big heavy book from the shelf, and after rubbing the dust off the leaves with loving care, was laying it open on the table before her. The mere sight of it scattered his enemies quicker than any of his arguments could have done; Cuthbert seized his cap, and was through the door out into the rain in the twinkling of an eye. Mrs. Janet suddenly remembered that the pudding needed her instant presence in the kitchen. Master Caleb and I were left alone. 'It's all in here,' he said, looking up at me with a baffled face. 'What is, sir?' 'The Laws of Electricity. It's no good talking to women--to most women, that is to say. See how clearly he puts it.' I don't know whether it was the thunder-storm; it may have been the atmospheric influences (what hard words) that made me feel so stupid. I looked at the big book with a sigh. 'Did one man write all that, sir?' 'Ay, that, and a vast deal more. It was written, Willie, by Professor Bruce.' No wonder he spoke the name in an impressive under-tone. It was one very familiar to all Master Caleb's friends. Professor Bruce was his hero. Professor Bruce was seldom out of his mouth. According to him, Professor Bruce had written something to prove everything that could be proved. Master Caleb's one boast and source of pride was that he knew the great man well. Several years ago Professor Bruce--now growing old--had left London, where he had passed most of his life, writing books and lecturing, and to the everlasting glory of our quiet old town, Morechester, he had lived there ever since.