The class with toes on the crack all swayed forward to look at
her, the pupils at the foot stepped off till they swung it into a
half-circle. Hands came up and gyrated wildly.

"Back on the line!" said the teacher sternly. Then they stepped back,
but the hands indicative of superior knowledge still waved, the coarse
jacket-sleeves and the gingham apron-sleeves slipping back from the
thin childish wrists.

"Eight times seven are eighty-nine," declared Patience desperately.
The hands shook frantically, some of the owners stepped off the line
again in their eagerness.

Patience's cheeks were red as poppies, her eyes were full of tears.

"You may try once more, Patience," said the teacher, who was
distressed herself. She feared lest Squire Bean might think that it
was her fault, and that she was not a competent teacher, because
Patience Mather did not know eight-times-seven.

So Patience started again--"Eight times seven"--She paused for a
mighty mental effort--she must get it right this time. "Six"--she
began feebly.

"What!" said Squire Bean suddenly, in a deep voice which sounded like
a growl.

Then all at once poor little Patience heard a whisper sweet as an
angel's in her ear: "Fifty-six."