Mr. Page rose from his chair and leaned over the edge of the platform that something might be whispered in his ear.  The news, whatever it was, was apparently electrifying, and after the first shock he turned to impart it to Mr. Graves; but turned too late, for the judge had already rapped for order and was clearing his throat.  He could not account for this extraordinary and unlooked-for audience, among whom he spied many who had thought it wiser not to protest against the dictum of the first citizen, and many who had professed to believe that the teacher’s connection with Jethro Bass was a good and sufficient reason for dismissal.  The judge was prepared to take advantage of the tide, whatever its cause.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I take the liberty of calling this meeting to order.  And before a chairman be elected, I mean to ask your indulgence to explain my purposes in requesting the use of this hall to-night.  In our system of government, the inalienable and most precious gift—­”

Whatever the gift was, the judge never explained.  He paused at the words, and repeated them, and stopped altogether because no one was paying any attention to him.  The hall was almost full, the people had risen, with a hum, and as one man had turned toward the door.  Mr. Gamaliel Ives was triumphantly marching down the aisle, and with him was—­well, another person.  Nay, personage would perhaps be the better word.

Let us go back for a moment.  There descended from that train of which we have heard the whistle a lady with features of no ordinary moulding, with curls and a string bonnet and a cloak that seemed strangely to harmonize with the lady’s character.  She had the way of one in authority, and Mr. Sherman himself ran to open the door of his only closed carriage, and the driver galloped off with her all the way to the Brampton House.  Once there, the lady seized the pen as a soldier seizes the sword, and wrote her name in most uncompromising characters on the register, Miss Lucretia Penniman, Boston.  Then she marched up to her room.

Miss Lucretia Penniman, author of the “Hymn to Coniston,” in the reflected glory of whose fame Brampton had shone for thirty years!  Whose name was lauded and whose poem was recited at every Fourth of July celebration, that the very children might learn it and honor its composer!  Stratford-on-Avon is not prouder of Shakespeare than Brampton of Miss Lucretia, and now she was come back, unheralded, to her birthplace.  Mr. Raines, the clerk, looked at the handwriting on the book, and would not believe his own sight until it was vouched for by sundry citizens who had followed the lady from the station—­on foot.  And then there was a to-do.

Send for Mr. Gamaliel Ives; send for Miss Bruce, the librarian; send for Mr. Page, editor of the Clarion, and notify the first citizen.  He, indeed, could not be sent for, but had he known of her coming he would undoubtedly have had her met at the portals and presented with the keys in gold.  Up and down the street flew the news which overshadowed and blotted out all other, and the poor little school-teacher was forgotten.