“You talk of To-Day,” the old man continued, querulously.  “I am tired of it.  Here is its type and history,” touching a county newspaper,—­“a fair type, with its cant, and bigotry, and weight of uncomprehended fact.  Bargain and sale,—­it taints our religion, our brains, our flags,—­yours and mine, Knowles, with the rest.  Did you never hear of those abject spirits who entered neither heaven nor hell, who were neither faithful to God nor rebellious, caring only for themselves?”

He paused, fairly out of breath.  Margaret looked up.  Knowles was silent.  There was a smothered look of pain on the coarse face; the schoolmaster’s words were sinking deeper than he knew.

“No, father,” said Margaret, hastily ending his quotation, “’io non averei creduto, che [vita] tanta n’ avesse disfatta.’”

Skilful Margaret!  The broil must have been turbid in the old man’s brain which the grand, slow-stepping music of the Florentine could not calm.  She had learned that long ago, and used it as a nurse does some old song to quiet her pettish infant.  His face brightened instantly.

“Do not believe, then, child,” he said, after a pause.  “It is a noble doubt in Dante or in you.”

The Doctor had turned away; she could not see his face.  The angry scorn was gone from the old master’s countenance; it was bent with its usual wistful quiet on the floor.  A moment after he looked up with a flickering smile.

“‘Onorate l’ altissimo poeta!’” he said, gently lifting his finger to his forehead in a military fashion.  “Where is my cane, Margaret?  The Doctor and I will go and walk on the porch before it grows dark.”

The sun had gone down long before, and the stars were out; but no one spoke of this.  Knowles lighted the schoolmaster’s pipe and his own cigar, and then moved the chairs out of their way, stepping softly that the old man might not hear him.  Margaret, in the room, watched them as they went, seeing how gentle the rough, burly man was with her father, and how, every time they passed the sweet-brier, he bent the branches aside, that they might not touch his face.  Slow, childish tears came into her eyes as she saw it; for the schoolmaster was blind.  This had been their regular walk every evening, since it grew too cold for them to go down under the lindens.  The Doctor had not missed a night since her father gave up the school, a month ago:  at first, under pretence of attending to his eyes; but since the day he had told them there was no hope of cure, he had never spoken of it again.  Only, since then, he had grown doubly quarrelsome,—­standing ready armed to dispute with the old man every inch of every subject in earth or air, keeping the old man in a state of boyish excitement during the long, idle days, looking forward to this nightly battle.