the next day he had forgotten
all about Miss Lester and her troubles. They were completely blotted out
of his mind by the relentless pressure of education; for school had
begun again.

One day dragged along after another. At last a week had gone. Then a
month. And spring was pretty well under way when Sube came home from
school one noon, to all appearances quite bowed down with grief. Mag
Macdougall, the family laundress, was dead.

The news was fittingly broken to those at the table, but seemed to
occasion no great concern. His father remarked in what Sube considered a
most unfeeling way that he hoped she hadn't taken with her the two
shirts that failed to come back with his linen that week; and his
mother's only comment was that she had decided to send the things to the
laundry anyway.

Sube was shocked; but he was not discouraged. He took the position that
the community's great loss was not fully appreciated, and at once
launched into a eulogy of Mag's imaginary virtues that gave to her a
character quite unlike that which she had borne in the flesh. And in
conclusion he announced that the funeral would take place that afternoon
at the Baptist Church, to which he felt he must go on account of poor
little Lizzie Macdougall's being in the same room with him at school.

And although Mr. Cane cultivated the attitude of always expecting the
unexpected to happen, this came as something of a surprise to him. For a
moment he was at a loss for words; then he had more than he knew what to
do with, out of which Sube managed to grasp the sentiment that any old
day when he was allowed to remain out of school to attend one of Mag
Macdougall's funerals would of necessity be a very cold one. And this
was a warm spring day.

Sube remonstrated. He whined. He argued until his father forbade
another word on the subject. Then in a highly rebellious and dangerous
state of mind he started for school, brooding anarchistically over the
element of paternalism that still survives in the American family. He
would have been an easy convert for any kind of soap-box heresy, but
fortunately no apostles of new thought chanced to cross his path.

However, when he had gone a short distance on his way he discovered that
he was being followed. A rather rangy dog with a white background
heavily sprinkled with black spots, and wearing a thick, stumpy tail
which a railroad train had thoughtlessly docked to half-length, was
sauntering along at a safe