The morning’s lessons were already well advanced, as I could hear by the hum of voices as I approached.  Even Peter, the jackdaw, in his wicker cage at the open doorway, joined in the clatter of tongues.  His quick eye noticed me hurrying to the school, and he sidled awkwardly along his perch, put out his long black beak through the bars of his cage, and flapped his wings with unmistakable signs of welcome.

I was very late; so late that I half dreaded going into the school; and to discover if possible what humour the schoolmaster was in, I peeped through the half-open window.  In the inner room I could see old Grace Drever seated with her gray cat beside the peat fire, busily twirling her spinning wheel.  Nearer to me Mr. Drever himself sat at a high desk, at the side of which hung the inevitable “tawse;” and I did not fail to notice that this instrument of torture had already been used that morning, for it still swung with a gentle motion from side to side, like the pendulum of a lazy clock.

Lest you should suppose that Andrew Drever was a severe taskmaster, however, let me here hasten to assure you that his nature was as sweet as summer.  His methods of punishment and reward were the perfection of justice.  In stature he was a small man, but his back was broad and strong, and his hands were firm and large.  His long, straight hair was as black as the wing of his own jackdaw, and his cheeks, though thin, had a freshness of colour about them that was brought there by the bracing breezes of our native hills.

The class was at the Latin exercises, for Latin formed part of our education, and I could hear Jessie Grey repeating a conjugation.  I saw Tom Kinlay looking absently towards the window where I stood, and fearing that he would notice me, I moved a step nearer the door.  Then I heard Mr. Drever speak.

“Kinlay,” said he, “finish the subjunctive mood, where Jessie Grey left off.”

Tom’s trembling voice betrayed his ignorance of the-lesson.

“Regor, I am ruled; regeris, thou—­”

“No, no,” interrupted the master.  “What are you thinking of, boy?  That’s the indicative mood.  I asked for the subjunctive.  Take your hands out of your pockets, sir, and don’t stand there glowering at the whaling ships.  They’ll not be away till afternoon.  Now, the subjunctive mood?”

“I can’t say it, sir.  I could not get it into my head,” whined Tom.

“Can’t! do you say?  Can’t!  Was there ever such a word?—­Here, you, Halcro Ericson, finish the—­Now, where’s that lad?  Has he not come to the school yet?”

“No, sir,” replied two or three voices.

Now that the schoolmaster’s attention had been so drawn to my absence, I felt more than ever reluctant to enter.

“Where is he?  Does anyone know?” asked Mr. Drever.

“Dinna ken, sir,” was the weak response.

Then Tom Kinlay, anxious, I suppose, to retrieve his lost ground, droned out:  “He’s away down at the shore side, sir.  I saw him fishing.”