rls, whom Mr. Glennie
used to teach; and that you may see what sort of man Maskew was, I will
tell you what happened one day in school between him and the parson. Mr.
Glennie taught us in the almshouses; for though there were now no
bedesmen, and the houses themselves were fallen to decay, yet the little
hall in which the inmates had once dined was still maintained, and served
for our schoolroom. It was a long and lofty room, with a high wainscot
all round it, a carved oak screen at one end, and a broad window at the
other. A very heavy table, polished by use, and sadly besmirched with
ink, ran down the middle of the hall with benches on either side of it
for us to use; and a high desk for Mr. Glennie stood under the window at
the end of the room. Thus we were sitting one morning with our
summing-slates and grammars before us when the door in the screen opens
and Mr. Maskew enters.

I have told you already of the verses which Mr. Glennie wrote for David
Block's grave; and when the floods had gone down Ratsey set up the
headstone with the poetry carved on it. But Maskew, through not going to
church, never saw the stone for weeks, until one morning, walking through
the churchyard, he lighted on it, and knew the verses for Mr. Glennie's.
So 'twas to have it out with the parson that he had come to school this
day; and though we did not know so much then, yet guessed from his
presence that something was in the wind, and could read in his face that
he was very angry. Now, for all that we hated Maskew, yet were we glad
enough to see him there, as hoping for something strange to vary the
sameness of school, and scenting a disturbance in the air. Only Grace was
ill at ease for fear her father should say something unseemly, and kept
her head down with shocks of hair falling over her book, though I could
see her blushing between them. So in vapours Maskew, and with an angry
glance about him makes straight for the desk where our master sits at the
top of the room.

For a moment Mr. Glennie, being shortsighted, did not see who 'twas; but
as his visitor drew near, rose courteously to greet him.

'Good day to you, Mister Maskew,' says he, holding out his hand.

But Maskew puts his arms behind his back and bubbles out, 'Hold not out
your hand to me lest I spit on it. 'Tis like your snivelling cant to
write sweet psalms for smuggling rogues and try to frighten honest men
with your judgements.'

At first Mr. Glennie did not know wha