out, and along the entry at arm's-length, and finally made to descend
the south door-steps at a dizzy run. "Go home to your mother,"
ordered Doctor Prescott. Still, he did not raise his voice, his color
had not changed, and he breathed no quicker. Births and deaths, all
natural stresses of life, its occasional tragedies, and even his own
bitter wrath could this small, equally poised man meet with calm
superiority over them and command over himself. Doctor Seth Prescott
never lost his personal dignity--he could not, since it was so
inseparable from his personality. If he chastised his son, it was
with the judicial majesty of a king, and never with a self-demeaning
show of anger. He ate and drank in his own house like a guest of
state at a feast; he drove his fine sorrel in his sulky like a
war-horse in a chariot. Once, when walking to meeting on an icy day,
his feet went from under him, and he sat down suddenly; but even his
fall seemed to have something majestic and solemn and Scriptural
about it. Nobody laughed.

Doctor Prescott expelling this little boy from his south door had the
impressiveness of a priest of Bible times expelling an interloper
from the door of the Temple. Jerome almost fell when he reached the
ground, but collected himself after a staggering step or two as the
door shut behind him.

The doctor's sulky was drawn up before the door, and Jake Noyes stood
by the horse's head. The horse sprang aside--he was a nervous
sorrel--when Jerome flew down the steps, and Jake Noyes reined him up
quickly with a sharp "Whoa!"

As soon as he recovered his firm footing, Jerome started to run out
of the yard; but Jake, holding the sorrel's bridle with one hand,
reached out the other to his collar and brought him to a stand.

"Hullo!" said he, hushing his voice somewhat and glancing at the
door. "What's to pay?"

"I told him he was a wicked man, and he didn't like it because it's
true," replied Jerome, in a loud voice, trying to pull away.

"Hush up," whispered Jake, with a half-whimsical, half-uneasy nod of
his head towards the door; "look out how you talk. He'll be out and
crammin' blue-pills and assafoetidy into your mouth first thing you
know. Don't you go to sassin' of your betters."

"He is a wicked man! I don't care, he is a wicked man!" cried Jerome,
loudly. He glanced defiantly at the house, then into Jake's face,
with a white flash of fury.

"Hush up, I tell ye," said Jake. "He'll be a-pourin' of c