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There were a great many holes in the schoolhouse walls, for the Squire made frequent visits; he was one of the committee and considered himself very necessary for the well-being of the school. Indeed if he had frankly spoken his mind, he would probably have admitted that in his estimation the school could not be properly kept one day without his assistance.

Patience stood with her back against the school fence, and watched the others soberly. The girls wanted her to play “Little Sally Waters sitting in the sun,” but she said no, she didn’t want to play.

Martha took hold of her arm and tried to pull her into the ring, but she held back.

“What is the matter?” said Martha.

“Nothing,” Patience said, but her face was full of trouble. There was a little wrinkle between her reflective brown eyes, and she drew in her under lip after a way she had when disturbed.

When the bell rang, the scholars filed in with the greatest order and decorum. Even the most frisky boys did no more than roll their eyes respectfully in the Squire’s direction as they passed him, and they tiptoed on their bare feet in the most cautious manner.

The Squire sat through the remaining exercises, until it was time to close the school.

“You may put up your books,” said the teacher. There was a rustle and clatter, then a solemn hush. They all sat with their arms folded, looking expectantly at Squire Bean. The teacher turned to him. Her cheeks were very red, and she was very dignified, but her voice shook a little.

“Won’t you make some remarks to the pupils?” said she.

Then the Squire rose and cleared his throat. The scholars did not pay much attention to what he said, although they sat still, with their eyes riveted on his face. But when, toward the close of his remarks, he put his hand in his pocket, and a faint jingling was heard, a thrill ran over the school.

The Squire pulled out two silver sixpences, and held them up impressively before the children. Through a hole in each of them dangled a palm-leaf strand; and the Squire’s own initial was stamped on both.

“Thomas Arnold may step this way,” said the Squire.

Thomas Arnold had acquitted himself well in geography, and to him the Squire duly presented one of the sixpences.

Thomas bobbed, and pattered back to his seat with all his mates staring and grinning at him.

Then Patience Mather’s heart jumped–Squire Bean was bidding her step that way, on account of her going to the head of the arithmetic class. She sat still. There was a roaring in her ears. Squire Bean spoke again. Then the teacher interposed. “Patience,” said she, “did you not hear what Squire Bean said? Step this way.”

Then Patience rose and dragged slowly down the aisle. She hung her head, she dimly heard Squire Bean speaking; then the sixpence touched her hand. Suddenly Patience looked up. There was a vein of heroism in the little girl. Not far back, some of her kin had been brave fighters in the Revolution. Now their little descendant went marching up to her own enemy in her own way. She spoke right up before Squire Bean.

“I’d rather you’d give it to some one else,” said she with a curtesy. “It doesn’t belong to me. I wouldn’t have gone to the head if I hadn’t cheated.”

Patience’s cheeks were white, but her eyes flashed. Squire Bean gasped, and turned it into a cough. Then he began asking her questions. Patience answered unflinchingly. She kept holding the sixpence toward him.

Finally he reached out and gave it a little push back.

“Keep it,” said he; “keep it, keep it. I don’t give it to you for going to the head, but because you are an honest and truthful child.”

Patience blushed pink to her little neck. She curtesied deeply and returned to her seat, the silver sixpence dangling from her agitated little hand. She put her head down on her desk, and cried, now it was all over, and did not look up till school was dismissed, and Martha Joy came and put her arm around her and comforted her.