She righted the stovepipe—­without swearing—­and built a brisk fire.  Then she began to scrub.

She had worked an hour, when she heard a voice and footsteps, and a moment later “Dodd” and the young Weavers darkened the door.

“Good morning!” she exclaimed, pausing a moment in her work and brushing back her hair with her arm, as she raised her flushed face, which was covered with a dew of perspiration; “you had better put your dinner pail out by the well, and then you can play in the yard a while, till I get the house cleaned up a little,” and again she turned to her scrubbing.

“Dodd” stood in the door and looked at the girl in amazement.  This was a new phase of the school teacher, sure enough.  He thought of Miss Stone and wondered bow she would look, down on her knees and scrubbing, as this girl was.  He stood in the door for some minutes, till, finally, Amy arose and started to carry out a pail of dirty water and bring in a fresh one in its place.  As she neared the boy he stepped to one side and let her pass, looking up into her face as she went by.  She returned his glance and smiled, and “Dodd” answered back with something akin to a blush, though the expression was such a stranger to his face that the superficial observer might have failed correctly to classify it at first sight.

Amy threw the water out, far into the road, and went to the well, “Dodd” saw where she was going, and, running to the pump, he seized the handle and began pumping vigorously.

“Thank you,” said Amy, when the bucket was filled; “I hardly think you can carry the pail so full,” she added, as “Dodd” proceeded to grasp the pail with both hands to carry the water to the house.  “Better let me help you,” she continued, taking hold of one side.  “There, so; now we’ll carry it together,” and, one on either side of the bucket, they went into the house again.

It may safely be said that the brief space of time occupied in going from the well to the school room, carrying half of that pail of water, was the proudest moment yet experienced by the hero of this story.  For the first time in his life the spirit of chivalry arose in his bosom, and though the act he performed in response to its promptings was a very simple and menial one, yet it was enough to stir all the pulses of his boyish nature and to make of him, for the time being, such a little man as he had never before dreamed of being.  It is William Shakspeare, I think, who has it—­

  “From woman’s eyes this doctrine I derive,
  They are the books, the grounds, the academies,
  From which doth spring the true Promethean fire!”

or words to that effect.  “Dodd,” however, knew nothing of the great poet, but he did know that something in the kindly eyes of this honest Irish girl made him want to do everything he could for her, and help her in every possible way.

The most gallant knight could rise to no more sublime condition!