Absalom’s father was a school director and Absalom had grown accustomed, under the rule of Miss Margaret’s predecessors, to feel the force of the fact in their care not to offend him.

“But your father is not the teacher here—­I am,” she cheerfully told him.  “So you may stay after school and do what I require.”

Tillie felt a pang of uneasiness as she went back to her seat.  Absalom’s father was very influential and, as all the township knew, very spiteful.  He could send Miss Margaret away, and he would do it, if she offended his only child, Absalom.  Tillie thought she could not bear it at all if Miss Margaret were sent away.  Poor Miss Margaret did not seem to realize her own danger.  Tillie felt tempted to warn her.  It was only this morning that the teacher had laughed at Absalom when he said that the Declaration of Independence was “a treaty between the United States and England,”—­and had asked him, “Which country, do you think, hurrahed the loudest, Absalom, when that treaty was signed?” And now this afternoon she “as much as said Absalom’s father should mind to his own business!” It was growing serious.  There had never been before a teacher at “William Penn school-house who had not judiciously “showed partiality” to Absalom.

“And he used to be dummer yet [stupider even] than what he is now,” thought Tillie, remembering vividly a school entertainment that had been given during her own first year at school, when Absalom, nine years old, had spoken his first piece.  His pious Methodist grandmother had endeavored to teach him a little hymn to speak on the great occasion, while his frivolous aunt from the city of Lancaster had tried at the same time to teach him “Bobby Shafto.”  New Canaan audiences were neither discriminating nor critical, but the assembly before which little Absalom had risen to “speak his piece off,” had found themselves confused when he told them that

  “On Jordan’s bank the Baptist stands,
    Silver buckles on his knee.”

Tillie would never forget her own infantine agony of suspense as she sat, a tiny girl of five, in the audience, listening to Absalom’s mistakes.  But Eli Darmstetter, the teacher, had not scolded him.

Then there was the time that Absalom had forced a fight at recess and had made little Adam Oberholzer’s nose bleed—­it was little Adam (whose father was not at that time a school director) that had to stay after school; and though every one knew it wasn’t fair, it had been accepted without criticism, because even the young rising generation of New Canaan understood the impossibility and folly of quarreling with one’s means of earning money.

But Miss Margaret appeared to be perfectly blind to the perils of her position.  Tillie was deeply troubled about it.

At half-past three, when, at a nod from Miss Margaret the little girl left her desk to go home, a wonderful thing happened—­Miss Margaret gave her a story-book.