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'Oh, don't worry about it,' interrupted the angel, looking cherubic if not angelic. I quite understand. You've been very kind, all through. It's all experience too, isn't it? And so interesting!' he added as an afterthought, and to himself, for Mr. Worth, with an impatient shrug of his shoulders, had gone out into the corridor.

A minute or two afterwards, the liveried attendant, a list in his hand, came to them with the information that Mr. Wilson's case had been reached.

'Who's the Chairman?' asked the angel almost on the threshold. 'Medwin-Jones, I think,' whispered Mr. Worth. 'I'm afraid he's rather a Tartar.'

'I hope he's the one that drops his aitches!' exclaimed the angel gleefully. An ideal chairman for an education committee.'

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VII.

The case did not take many minutes-the list was long and the time short. The committee-room was large and well-lighted. At a very big table sat the Committee, the Chairman in the middle. Opposite him, at a little distance from the table, were two chairsone for the angel, and one for the headmaster. Room was made at the table for the Rev. Mr. Cobbe, who bustled in late. A number of chairs at one end of the room accommodated quite a crowd of official-looking personages, among them Mr. Turton.

The Chairman, a clean-shaven, dark, hatchet-faced man, with pince-nez and the manner of one who is desperately driven but resolutely methodical, took up a printed paper and gave what he intended for a lightning-glance at the assistant teacher.

'Mr.-er-Wilson ? 'he asked.

The angel nodded amiably.

Mr. Medwin-Jones consulted some notes, and then said, speaking in a thin, tired voice:

'Well, Mr. Wilson, this is a very unhappy and unsatisfactory state of affairs. These reports now-we don't want to be hard on you—we quite understand that you haven't had much experience, but there doesn't seem to be any improvement. What have you got to say, Mr. Worth, as to that?' he added, turning to the headmaster, who looked more miserable than ever.

'I'm afraid I can't say there has been much improvement,' he answered. Mr. Wilson's heart doesn't seem to be in his work.

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I'm sure he has plenty of ability, but it seems as if he can't, or doesn't care to, bring it to bear on teaching. His class is steadily deteriorating order, attention, work. Many of the boys like him personally, but they are getting quite out of hand, and that, of course, affects the other classes.'

'Yes, of course; quite so,' said the Chairman, drumming with his fingers on the table. Is it an exceptionally difficult class?' he asked.

'No, I should say not,' answered Mr. Worth.

'I suppose you have talked things over together?'
'Oh yes; time after time.'

While this little conversation was going on, the angel was looking round the room with quick, keen glances, acknowledging Mr. Turton with a nod and a smile, passing quickly from face to face, easy, alert, and apparently cheerful. His eyes came back to the Chairman as Mr. Medwin-Jones addressed him again.

'Well, Mr. Wilson, you see what our position is. We are ultimately responsible for the efficient working of the educational machine, and we can't allow the work of a school to be thrown out of gear because one wheel won't, or can't, run smoothly.'

He paused for a moment, and the angel interposed with a delightful air of sweet reasonableness.

No, indeed. That would be very hard on the other wheels.' The Chairman stared hard at this most unusual type of delinquent. If such a thing were not incredible, he could almost have thought he was making fun of the whole affair.

'I am glad you appreciate the seriousness of the situation,' he said, with a distinct tightening of the lips. The question is, are you really suited to be a teacher?'

To tell you the truth,' answered the angel, 'I don't think I am." The mingled frankness and bonhomie with which this answer was given seemed to stagger the Chairman. He consulted his notes, looked up and then down again, and at last stammered helplessly:

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It seems-er-appears-a-a-hopeless position.'

Absolutely,' smiled the angel, leaning back in his chair, and once more studying the Committee.

'What's to be done, then?' exclaimed Mr. Medwin-Jones irritably.

'Ah, Sir,' said the angel, with a graceful little bow; I think it would be impertinent for me to make any suggestion.'

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Do you want to leave the profession, Mr. Wilson?' asked the Chairman abruptly.

'Well, to be quite candid,' answered the angel, 'I am rather tired of it.'

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This, in fact, is a resignation,' said the Chairman.

And I needn't write a letter,' added the angel, with an air of great relief.

'You must settle that with the correspondent,' answered the Chairman shortly. He could not rid himself of an uncomfortable feeling that he was being scored off by this imperturbable, smiling young man. Yet there was nothing to lay hold of. It's been a very unfortunate business all along,' he snapped, but there's nothing more to say now. Next case.'

The angel rose and bowed to the Committee.

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'Good morning, gentlemen,' he said with a courteous smile, and walked out of the room.

VIII.

Outside the committee-room he was soon joined by the head

master.

'What made you do that?' asked Mr. Worth. If you had taken a different line they would have let you have another try.' 'But I didn't want it,' answered Mr. Wilson. I was going to resign a week ago, only I wanted to see what the Sub-committee was like. It was tremendously interesting. I'm very glad I waited.'

'What are you going to do? Have you anything else to go to? The headmaster was as much mystified as the Chairman, but he had a liking for the young fellow, and was wondering whether he had been too hard on him. He certainly had plenty of pluck.

The angel opened his Telegraph and pointed to a long, largeprint review.

'It looks as if that's going to be my line,' he said. 'I've got a regular job on The Trumpet, besides.'

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Mr. Worth looked. The Elementary School under the Microscope,' it was headed, and at the foot of the page was the title of the book reviewed- Temperton Street-A Provided School,'" and the name of the author- By A. W. Wilson.' Then he glanced at the first lines of the review.

'Many of these sketches,' it ran, appeared in the columns of The Trumpet, where they excited a great deal of interest. Brought together, and grouped with a large amount of new material, they make an even stronger impression. Read singly, they might be classed as brilliant journalism; read together as an artistic unity, they are evidently literature. Mr. Wilson has an eye for significant detail and a vivid sense of broad humour that recall Dickens in his early days. There is no risk in prophesying success for such a book as this."

Mr. Worth looked up, a trifle dazed.

'Do you mean to say it's you they're talking about?'

The young man opened a parcel he was carrying under his arm, and took out two copies of what looked like a six-shilling novel.

'I hope you'll accept one,' he said. 'There isn't so very much Chignett Street in it. I don't think I've been spitefulI oughtn't to be-you've behaved splendidly to me. This other copy I meant for the managers. Would you mind giving it to them for me?'

This was how they came to recognise that they had been entertaining an angel unawares.

AUDACIA.

BY SIR J. H. YOXALL, M.P.

WHEN I consider the behaviour of Audacia Faithorne I the more admire Mrs. Mary Home. 'I am married,' Mrs. Home informed Mr. Spectator by letter, and have no concern but to please the man I love. He is the end of every care I have. He is almost the end of my devotions. Half my prayers are for his happiness. I love to talk of him, and never hear him named but with pleasure and emotion.' After two centuries there still are foolish, happy wives like that; for instance, Marian, spouse to my neighbour Coelebs, at The Laurels.

Audacia Faithorne would snort at that letter, and in a most disconcerting way. Audacia is Faithorne's daughter: it was she who committed arson upon the Heath; Faithorne is glad, now, or so he tells me, that his wife her mother is dead. We cannot complain of not being warned of the coming of the Audacias, however; twenty years back a woman writing under the name of a man told us that men have overlooked the eternal wildness, the untamed primitive savage temperament, that lurk in the mildest, best women,' and more than fifty years ago Sir Austen Feverel is reported to have said that woman will be the last thing civilised by man.' I confess that until lately I had thought it man who had been civilised by woman.

But perceive Audacia running away from the fire, with difficulty, because of her foolish hobble-skirt and her prison of long, strait corset; observe her deliberately doing an act of crime, and then shirking the penalty in a most unsportsmanlike way. She had taken out no policy on the Heath Pavilion, she would draw no insurance money; which shows her lack of what is called the business instinct, as well as something else. Revolt' she calls her behaviour; all Vallombrosa Gardens, N.W., calls it revolting; Miss Virginia and her sister Josepha at The Nest cannot find adequate words in which to express their opinion of such unladylike behaviour, my dear!' It seems that the policeman caught Audacia fire-raising at three-fifteen in the morning—a pretty time for a girl to be out of her bed, on the Heath, in the dark!

Faithorne says he can't control her, and doesn't know any man who could. The constable says that he caught Audacia hothanded; but she tergiversated in a way no blessed martyr

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