And I suppose you think as you're going to do it," said the other
scornfully.

"Yes, I hope so," was the reply. "Come, my friend, now tell me
honestly, isn't it happier for the people of this village to have a good
school and a good schoolmaster set down amongst them than to be living
as they used to do, without proper instruction for the children, and
without any knowledge of God and a better world?"

"Can't say as to that," said Ruby Grigg doubtfully, and a little
sulkily; "there's lots of people here as likes the old ways better."

"Perhaps so," said Horace; "but they may be wrong in what they like.
Now, I ask you again--tell me honestly--don't you see a change for the
better yourself in Bridgepath?"

"Well, I don't know," replied the old man, fidgeting about; "it's been a
worse change for me. I ain't done anything like the business this time
as I use doing here, leastways in some things."

Horace had now seated himself by the old man, spite of a deep growl from
Grip, whose nearer approach was cut short by a backhanded slap from his
master.

"Look there now, old friend," continued the young man. At this moment
the school doors were thrown open, and out poured a stream of boys and
girls, tumbling one over another in their excitement, and singing gaily
as they began to disperse over the green. But all suddenly stopped, for
the schoolmaster made his appearance, and all clustered round him.
School was over, and what was going to happen now? In former days the
sight of the master would have been a signal for every boy and girl to
slink out of reach of his observation; but now the master's coming was
hailed with a happy shout, and the young ones vied with one another in
getting near him, while the youngest clung to his dress, and all looked
up at him with bright and happy smiles. Horace turned towards the old
man, and marked a flush on his worn and weather-beaten features.
"That's a sight worth seeing, my friend," he added; "I think it used not
to be so."

Reuben made no answer. His eye seemed to be gazing at something beyond
the busy scene before him.

"You've never had any children of your own, it may be," said Horace,
noticing his absent look.

Slowly the old man turned towards his companion, his face was now quite
pale, and tears began to steal down its deep furrows. "I've never a
child now," he said in a hoarse and troubled voice, "but I had once--a
blessed little 'un she were, but she died."

"It