indeed, the one who lived in the biggest house, was councillor of the
municipality, owned a threshing-machine, boarded the teacher, and
made political speeches--and so Bud's offence was not a slight one.

A school meeting was called, to see what was to be done. Young Tom
was there, swollen of lip and nose, and with sunset shades around
both eyes. Libby Anne was there, too, but she had been warned by her
father, a poor, shiftless fellow, living on a rented farm, that she
must not say anything to offend the Steadmans, for Mr. Steadman owned
the farm that they were living on.

The trial was decided before it began. The teacher, Mr. Donald, was
away attending the Normal, and his place was being filled by a young
fellow who had not enough courage to stand for the right.

The question to be decided was this: Did Tom Steadman strike Libby
Anne with intent to hurt; or did he merely reprimand her gently to
"shinny on her own side"; or did she run under his stick when he
struck at the ball? Tom Steadman said she ran under his stick, and he
didn't see her, whereupon some of the children who were not living on
rented farms groaned. Several of the children gave their testimony
that Tom had without doubt struck her "a-purpose!" Then Mr. Steadman,
Tom's father, a big, well-fed man, who owned nineteen hundred acres
of land and felt that some liberty should be allowed the only son of
a man who paid such a heavy school-tax, took charge and said, fixing
his eyes on Bill Cavers, his poverty-stricken tenant: "Let us see
what Libby Anne has to say. I should say that Libby Anne's testimony
should have more weight than all these others, for these young ones
seem to have a spite at our Tom. Libby Anne, did Tom strike you
a-purpose?"

"Be careful what you say, Libby Anne," her father said miserably, his
eyes on the ground. He owed Steadman for his seed-wheat.

Libby Anne looked appealingly at Bud. Her eyes begged him to forgive
her.

Mr. Steadman repeated the question.

"Speak, Libby Anne," her father said, never raising his eyes.

"Did Tom hit you a-purpose?"

Libby Anne drew a deep breath, and then in a strange voice she
answered: "No."

She flung out the word as if it burned her.

Libby Anne was a pathetic figure in her much-washed derry dress,
faded now to the colour of dead grass, and although she was clean and
well-kept, her pleading eyes and pale face told of a childhood that
had been full of troubles and tears.

Bud stare