The recess ended, the school was in order again; the recitations went on as usual, an hour and a quarter went by, noon came, the session closed for dinner, the pupils left the room in groups, till all were gone, and for the first time “Dodd” Weaver and Mr. Charles Bright were alone, face to face.

CHAPTER XI.

Mr. Bright took a small piece of blank paper from his table, a rectangular slip about four inches long by two inches wide, cut expressly for the purpose for which he proceeded to use it, and went down to the desk where “Dodd” sat sulking and defiant.

“Please write your name and age on this slip of paper,” he said to the boy.

“I can’t write!” grumbled “Dodd,” with a surly sneer and a wag of his head.

“I see!  You have no pencil,” returned Mr. Bright.  “You can use mine,” and he slipped that article into “Dodd’s” hand as he spoke.

As soon as he had done this, he went to the rear part of the room and began looking over some work upon the blackboard.  He did not look toward the boy to see if he obeyed, but his ears were on the alert.

For a little while “Dodd” sat unmoved, and made no sign that he intended to write at all, but as Mr. Bright kept working at the board, the boy gradually relaxed his unyielding mood, and after a few minutes wrote his name in a very neat hand.  He even added a little flourish in one corner of the paper.

Mr. Bright heard the pencil moving on the desk and his blood ran quicker in his veins, though he showed no outward sign of the fact.  He felt that in the first crossing of swords he had won.  That was all.  He heard the pencil drop upon the floor, where “Dodd” let it lie.  But he still devoted himself to his work on the board.  He knew that the name was written.  It was all he had asked.

As for “Dodd,” he almost wondered how he happened to write at all.  He had made up his mind to be as mean and outrageous as possible when he came to school, and here he had done the very first thing he had been asked to do!  When he replied to Mr. Bright that he could not write, he fully intended to have a knock-down with the gentleman rather than put pencil to paper.  He even thought over hastily, how quickly he could “put a head on the light weight” who had brought him the bit of paper.  For “Dodd” was strong now and prided himself on his skill with his fists.

But the pencil was in his hand, and, before he was aware, his fingers clasped it.  His hand instinctively took the position for writing, and somehow or other, there came to his mind, just at that instant, the memory of Amy Kelly, and of how she had held her soft, plump hand over his, as she taught him to hold a pen.

If he had observed closely, he would have seen that this was where the first break came in his rebellion.  It was the sunshine of Amy’s character shining down through the dark clouds that had closed in about “Dodd” Weaver’s soul, that first tempted his timid, shrinking, almost forgotten real self out into the light again.  Habit completed what memory began, and his hand moved, though almost against his will, as if guided by an impulse beyond himself.  Perhaps it was so guided!