“Mr. Craft,” said Bart, approaching that cowed and trembling youth, “you and I can get along.  I don’t want to part with you if you will remain with me.  I will excuse you from school this afternoon, and you can come back in the morning, and that may be the last of it.  I will not humiliate you and myself with any punishment.”  There was a tremor in Bart’s voice, and a softness in his face.  John arose:  “Mr. Ridgeley, I don’t know how I came to—­I am very sorry—­I want to stay with you.”

“All right, John, we will shake hands on it.”  And they did.

“My poor, poor children!” said Bart, going up to the younger ones, who had huddled into the farthest corner and clambered on to the desks.  “My poor scared little things, it is all over now, and we are all so glad and happy, aren’t we?” and he took up some of the smallest in his arms and kissed them, and the still frightened, but glad and rejoicing young women, looked as if they would be willing to have that passed round.  When they were pacified, and resumed their places, Charley Smith gathered up the boards and parts of the disabled desk, and Bart, with a few kind words to the older scholars, resumed the exercises of the school.

Scenes of violence were rare, even in that rude day, among that people; the sensibilities of the children were deeply wounded, and none of them were in a fitting condition to profit by their exercises, which were barely gone through with, and they were early dismissed to their homes, with the marvellous tale of the afternoon’s events.

Bart was in the habit of remaining to write up the copies, and place everything in order before he left.  The young men and older maidens lingered at the door, and then returned in a body, to say how glad they were that it had ended as it did.  They knew something would happen, and they were so glad, and then they shook hands with him, and went hurrying home.

When they left, Bart locked the door, and, throwing himself into the chair by his table, laid his head down and burst into an uncontrollable flood of tears;—­but he was a man now, and tears only choked and suffocated him.  He was ashamed of himself for his weakness, and bathing his eyes, walked about the school-room to regain his composure.  Every particle of anger left his bosom before Bingham left the house, and now he was fully under the influence of the melancholy part of his nature.  Never before, even in childish anger, had he touched a human being with violence, and now he had exerted his strength, and had grappled with and struck a fellow-man in a brute struggle for animal mastery; he felt humiliated and abased.  That the fellow’s nature was low, and that he was compelled to act as he had done, was little comfort to him.  He was glad that he decided not to punish or expel John.  Darkness came, and he was aroused by a noise at the door.  He unlocked it, and found Canfield and Morey and Smith.

“Hullo, Ridgeley!” exclaimed the former.  “Good God! and so you had a pitched battle, and licked that bully before he had time to begin; give me your hand!  Who would have thought it?”