She sat still. There was a roaring in her ears. Squire Bean spoke
again. Then the teacher interposed. "Patience," said she, "did you not
hear what Squire Bean said? Step this way."

Then Patience rose and dragged slowly down the aisle. She hung her
head, she dimly heard Squire Bean speaking; then the sixpence touched
her hand. Suddenly Patience looked up. There was a vein of heroism in
the little girl. Not far back, some of her kin had been brave fighters
in the Revolution. Now their little descendant went marching up to her
own enemy in her own way. She spoke right up before Squire Bean.

"I'd rather you'd give it to some one else," said she with a curtesy.
"It doesn't belong to me. I wouldn't have gone to the head if I hadn't
cheated."

Patience's cheeks were white, but her eyes flashed. Squire Bean
gasped, and turned it into a cough. Then he began asking her
questions. Patience answered unflinchingly. She kept holding the
sixpence toward him.

Finally he reached out and gave it a little push back.

"Keep it," said he; "keep it, keep it. I don't give it to you for
going to the head, but because you are an honest and truthful child."

Patience blushed pink to her little neck. She curtesied deeply and
returned to her seat, the silver sixpence dangling from her agitated
little hand. She put her head down on her desk, and cried, now it was
all over, and did not look up till school was dismissed, and Martha
Joy came and put her arm around her and comforted her.