“It’s like this,” she confessed presently:  “I can’t rid myself of that weak, hateful Belle.  She’s going to lie down soon, and let the boys trample on her; then she’ll have to quit.  And Alethea sees the Promised Land.  Oh, oh!  I do despise the worst half of myself!”

“The sooner you leave these young devils the better.”

“What do you say?”

She confronted me with flashing eyes.  I swear that she looked beautiful.  The angularities, the lack of colour, the thin chest, the stooping back were effaced.  I could not see them, because—­well, because I was looking through them, far beyond them, at something else.

“I love my boys, my foothill boys; and if they are rough, brutal at times, they’re strong.”  Her emphasis on the word was pathetic.  “They’re strong, and they’re young, and they’re poised for flight—­ now.  To me, me, has been given the opportunity to direct that flight—­ upward, and if I fail them, if I quit——­” She trembled violently.

“You won’t quit,” said I, with conviction.

“To-morrow,” said she, “they’ve fixed things for a real battle.”

She refused obstinately to tell me more, and obtained a solemn promise from me that I would not interfere.

* * * * *

Afterwards I got most of the facts out of George Spragg.  Three of the biggest boys had planned rank mutiny.  Doubtless they resented a compulsory attendance at school, and with short-sighted policy made certain that if they got rid of Alethea-Belle the schoolhouse would be closed for ever.  And what chance could she have—­one frail girl against three burly young giants?

A full attendance warned her that her scholars expected something interesting to happen.  Boys and girls filed into the schoolroom quietly enough, and the proceedings opened with prayer, but not the usual prayer.  Alethea-Belle prayed fervently that right might prevail against might, now, and for ever.  Amen.

Within a minute the three mutineers had marched into the middle of the room.  In loud, ear-piercing notes they began to sing “Pull for the Shore.”  The girls giggled nervously; the boys grinned; several opened their mouths to sing, but closed them again as Alethea-Belle descended from the rostrum and approached the rebels.  The smallest child knew that a fight to a finish had begun.

The schoolmarm raised her thin hand and her thin voice.  No attention was paid to either.  Then she walked swiftly to the door and locked it.  The old adobe had been built at a time when Indian raids were common in Southern California.  The door was of oak, very massive; the windows, narrow openings in the thick walls, were heavily barred.  The children wondered what was about to happen.  The three rebels sang with a louder, more defiant note as Alethea-Belle walked past them and on to the rostrum.  Upon her desk stood a covered basket.  Taking this in her hand, she came back to the middle of the room.