It was early in the evening, and the master’s window was open to the soft spring air that came in full of the freshness of young leaves and the joyous splash of the flooded river.  Two of his schoolboys were loitering under the window, wishing to speak to him, yet too bashful; he got up and sat on the window-sill, smiled at them, and they smiled back.  They had a tale to tell; but, as it was of a somewhat delicate nature and hard to explain, he had to listen very patiently.  They had a dollar—­a brown and green paper dollar—­which they gave him with an air of solemn importance.  They said that they and some of their comrades had been a long way from home gathering saxifrage, and that they had met one of the young ladies of the town.  She had her arms full of flowers, and her pocket quite full of moss, so full that she had had to take her purse and handkerchief out and hold them in her hand with the flowers because the moss was wet.  When she came upon them, they were trying to get some saxifrage that was on a ledge of rock; they could only climb half-way up the rock, and were none of them tall enough to reach it; so she put down all her flowers and things and climbed up and got it for them; but in the meantime one of them opened the purse and took out the dollar.  She never found it out, and went away.

‘Not either of you?’ said the schoolmaster.

’No, sir; one of the other fellows did it.  But he’s sorry, and wants to give it back; so we said that we would tell you, and perhaps you would give it to her.’

’Why couldn’t you go and give it to her, just as you have given it to me?’

’Because we knew you’d b’lieve us that it was just the way we said; and her folks, you know, might think we’d done it when we said we hadn’t.  Or, mother said, if you didn’t want to be troubled, perhaps you’d just write a line to say how it was, and we’ll go and leave it at the house after dark and come away quick.’

The master had no objection to this; so he brought the boys in and got out his best note-paper—­he was fastidious about some things—­and wrote a note beginning ‘Dear Madam,’ telling in a few lines that the money had been stolen and restored.

‘What is the lady’s name?’ he asked, taking up the envelope.

‘It was Eelan Reid, sir; Mr. Reid’s daughter that keeps the shop.’

So the schoolmaster wrote ‘Miss Eelan Reid’ in a fair round hand, and then he paused for a moment.  He was making up his mind to the all-decisive action.

’Perhaps you can wait for another note and take that for me at the same time,’ he said.  He gave them some picture papers to look at.  Then he wrote the note of such moment to himself, beginning, as before, ’Dear Madam,’ and doing his best to follow the many instructions which the faithful Mrs. Sims had given him.  It was a curious specimen of literature, in which a truly elegant mind and warm heart were veiled, but not hidden, by an embarrassed attempt at conventional phrases—­a letter that most women would laugh at, and that the best women would reverence.  He addressed that envelope too, and sealed the notes and sent away the boys.