It was a very small place. The men and boys were playing at cricket on the green; and as the other folks were looking on, they wandered up and down, uncertain where to seek a humble lodging. There was but one old man in the little garden before his cottage, and him they were timid of approaching, for he was the schoolmaster, and had “School” written up over his window in black letters on a white board. He was a pale, simple-looking man, of a spare and meagre habit, and sat among his flowers and beehives, smoking his pipe, in the little porch before his door.
“Speak to him, dear,” the old man whispered.
“I am almost afraid to disturb him,” said the child timidly. “He does not seem to see us. Perhaps if we wait a little, he may look this way.”
They waited, but the schoolmaster cast no look towards them, and still sat, thoughtful and silent, in the little porch. He had a kind face. In his plain old suit of black, he looked pale and meagre. They fancied, too, a lonely air about him and his house, but perhaps that was because the other people formed a merry company upon the green, and he seemed the only solitary man in all the place.
They were very tired, and the child would have been bold enough to address even a schoolmaster, but for something in his manner which seemed to denote that he was uneasy or distressed. As they stood hesitating at a little distance, they saw that he sat for a few minutes at a time like one in a brown study, then laid aside his pipe and took a few turns in his garden, then approached the gate and looked towards the green, then took up his pipe again with a sigh, and sat down thoughtfully as before.
As nobody else appeared and it would soon be dark, Nell at length took courage, and when he had resumed his pipe and seat, ventured to draw near, leading her grandfather by the hand. The slight noise they made in raising the latch of the wicket-gate, caught his attention. He looked at them kindly but seemed disappointed too, and slightly shook his head.
Nell dropped a curtsey, and told him they were poor travellers who sought a shelter for the night which they would gladly pay for, so far as their means allowed. The schoolmaster looked earnestly at her as she spoke, laid aside his pipe, and rose up directly.
“If you could direct us anywhere, sir,” said the child, “we should take it very kindly.”
“You have been walking a long way,” said the schoolmaster.
“A long way, sir,” the child replied.
“You’re a young traveller, my child,” he said, laying his hand gently on her head. “Your grandchild, friend?”
“Aye, sir,” cried the old man, “and the stay and comfort of my life.”
“Come in,” said the schoolmaster.
Without further preface he conducted them into his little schoolroom, which was parlour and kitchen likewise, and told them they were welcome to remain under his roof till morning. Before they had done thanking him, he spread a coarse white cloth upon the table, with knives and platters; and bringing out some bread and cold meat and a jug of beer, besought them to eat and drink.
The child looked round the room as she took her seat. There were a couple of forms, notched and cut and inked all over; a small deal desk perched on four legs, at which no doubt the master sat; a few dog’s-eared books upon a high shelf; and beside them a motley collection of peg-tops, balls, kites, fishing-lines, marbles, half-eaten apples, and other confiscated property of idle urchins. Displayed on hooks upon the wall in all their terrors, were the cane and ruler; and near them, on a small shelf of its own, the dunce’s cap, made of old newspapers and decorated with glaring wafers of the largest size. But, the great ornaments of the walls, were certain moral sentences fairly copied in good round text, and well-worked sums in simple addition and multiplication, evidently achieved by the same hand, which were plentifully pasted all round the room: for the double purpose, as it seemed, of bearing testimony to the excellence of the school, and kindling a worthy emulation in the bosoms of the scholars.
“Yes,” said the old schoolmaster, observing that her attention was caught by these latter specimens. “That’s beautiful writing, my dear.”
“Very, sir,” replied the child modestly, “is it yours?”
“Mine!” he returned, taking out his spectacles and putting them on, to have a better view of the triumphs so dear to his heart. “I couldn’t write like that, nowadays. No. They’re all done by one hand; a little hand it is, not so old as yours, but a very clever one.”
As the schoolmaster said this, he saw that a small blot of ink had been thrown on one of the copies, so he took a penknife from his pocket, and going up to the wall, carefully scraped it out. When he had finished, he walked slowly backward from the writing, admiring it as one might contemplate a beautiful picture, but with something of sadness in his voice and manner which quite touched the child, though she was unacquainted with its cause.
“A little hand indeed,” said the poor schoolmaster. “Far beyond all his companions, in his learning and his sports too, how did he ever come to be so fond of me! That I should love him is no wonder, but that he should love me—” and there the schoolmaster stopped, and took off his spectacles to wipe them, as though they had grown dim.
“I hope there is nothing the matter, sir,” said Nell anxiously.
“Not much my dear,” returned the schoolmaster. “I hoped to have seen him on the green tonight. He was always foremost among them. But he’ll be there tomorrow.”
“Has he been ill?” asked the child, with a child’s quick sympathy.
“Not very. They said he was wandering in his
