The document she held ran as follows: 

  Silas Peckham, Esq., Principal of the Apollinean Institute,
  In Account with Helen Darley, Assist.  Teacher.

  Dr.
  To Salary for quarter ending Jan. 1st,
  @ $75 per quarter . . . . . . $75.00

______
$75.00

Cr. By Deduction for absence, 1 week 8 days . . . . . . . . . . $10.00 " Board, lodging, etc., for 10 days, @ 75 cts. per day . . . . . . 7.50 " Damage to Institution by absence of teacher from duties, say . . . 25.00 " Stationery furnished . . . . . 43 " Postage-stamp . . . . . . . 01 " Balance due Helen Darley . . $32.06 ______ $75.00

  ROCKLAND, Jan. 1st, 1859.

Now Helen had her own private reasons for wishing to receive the small sum which was due her at this time without any unfair deduction,—­reasons which we need not inquire into too particularly, as we may be very sure that they were right and womanly.  So, when she looked over this account of Mr. Silas Peckham’s, and saw that he had contrived to pare down her salary to something less than half its stipulated amount, the look which her countenance wore was as near to that of righteous indignation as her gentle features and soft blue eyes would admit of its being.

“Why, Mr. Peckham,” she said, “do you mean this?  If I am of so much value to you that you must take off twenty-five dollars for ten days’ absence, how is it that my salary is to be cut down to less than seventy-five dollars a quarter, if I remain here?”

“I gave you fair notice,” said Silas.  “I have a minute of it I took down immed’ately after the intervoo.”

He lugged out his large pocket-book with the strap going all round it, and took from it a slip of paper which confirmed his statement.

“Besides,” he added, slyly, “I presoom you have received a liberal pecooniary compensation from Squire Venner for nussin’ his daughter.”

Helen was looking over the bill while he was speaking.

“Board and lodging for ten days, Mr. Peckham,—­whose board and lodging, pray?”

The door opened before Silas Peckham could answer, and Mr. Bernard walked into the parlor.  Helen was holding the bill in her hand, looking as any woman ought to look who has been at once wronged and insulted.

“The last turn of the thumbscrew!” said Mr. Bernard to himself.  “What is it, Helen?  You look troubled.”

She handed him the account.

He looked at the footing of it.  Then he looked at the items.  Then he looked at Silas Peckham.

At this moment Silas was sublime.  He was so transcendency unconscious of the emotions going on in Mr. Bernard’s mind at the moment, that he had only a single thought.

“The accaount’s correc’ly cast, I presoom;—­if the’ ’s any mistake of figgers or addin’ ’em up, it’ll be made all right.  Everything’s accordin’ to agreement.  The minute written immed’ately after the intervoo is here in my possession.”