hadow.

"But," said the stranger, as if following an aggrieved line of apology,
"if Barstow knew who you were, and what you'd done, and still thought
you good enough to rastle round here and square up them Pike County
fellers and them kids--what in thunder do you care if the others DO find
you out, as long as Barstow sticks to you?"

"I've told you why, Dick," returned Twing gloomily.

"Oh, the schoolma'am!"

"Yes, she's a saint, an angel. More than that--she's a lady, Dick,
to the tip of her fingers, who knows nothing of the world outside a
parson's study. She took me on trust--without a word--when the trustees
hung back and stared. She's never asked me about myself, and now when
she knows who and what I have been--she'll loathe me!"

"But look here, Jim," said the stranger anxiously. "I'll say it's all a
lie. I'll come here and apologize to you afore HER, and say I took you
for somebody else. I'll"--

"It's too late," said Twing moodily.

"And what'll you do?"

"Leave here."

They had reached the door together. To Mrs. Martin's terror, as the
stranger passed out, Twing, instead of following him as she expected,
said "Good-night," and gloomily re-entered the schoolroom. Here he
paused a moment, and then throwing himself on one of the benches,
dropped his head upon a desk with his face buried in his hands--like a
very schoolboy.

What passed through Mrs. Martin's mind I know not. For a moment she sat
erect and rigid at her desk. Then she slipped quietly down, and, softly
as one of the last shadows cast by the dying sun, glided across the
floor to where he sat.

"Mrs. Martin," he said, starting to his feet.

"I have heard all," she said faintly. "I couldn't help it. I was here
when you came in. But I want to tell you that I am content to know you
only as you seem to be,--as I have always found you here,--strong and
loyal to a duty laid upon you by those who had a full knowledge of all
you had been."

"Did you? Do you know what I have been?"

Mrs. Martin looked frightened, trembled a moment, and, recovering
herself with an effort, said gently, "I know nothing of your past."

"Nothing?" he repeated, with a mirthless attempt at laughter, and a
quick breath. "Not that I've been a--a--mountebank, a variety actor--a
clown, you know, for the amusement of the lowest, at twenty-five cents a
ticket. That I'm 'Johnny Walker,' the song and dance man--the all-round
man--selected by Mr. Barstow to teach these boors