"I write a very bad hand; but, so long as it can be read, that does not signify."

Mrs. Dalgleish spoke with great firmness, "Maurice, you are mistaking your position in this schoolroom, and imperilling mine. You are not at liberty to choose your own work, or to decline any I may give you. It would be much more dignified of you to write your copy as you are told than, by a direct refusal, set your younger brother and sisters a bad example, making my path difficult at the onset."

"I should be sorry to do that, Mrs. Dalgleish; but they are younger than I. I am only with you be

"Because what, Maurice?"

He could not bring his pride down to say, "Because I am an invalid." Tears gathered in his eyes and then fell; but the copy-book was taken out of the desk and the pen mended. "Of course," he said, sotto voce, yet with intent that his words should reach the ear which might be so easily wounded by them, "Of course I'm under a governess, and must expect to do babywork."

CHAPTER VII.

“I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the schoolboy's brain;

The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.”

LONGFELLOW.

MRS. DALGLEISH was very sorry for the boy. She comprehended his proud, sensitive nature too well not to be conscious of the pain she had given him. She was sorry that he had so foolishly compelled her to the exercise of her authority. She would, out of deference to his boy-dignity and pride, have preferred putting herself on a level with him, directing his studies as a fellow-student more advanced rather than as a governess; but he had, ere she could take up the ground she meditated, forced her, by his insolence, to keep on that which she would naturally be supposed to occupy. Of course, where a pair of mischievous brown eyes like Hetty's and the equally observant ones of the younger Wetherills were all interested in seeing who would carry the day, Mrs. Dalgleish dared not to surrender; yet she felt disappointed and vexed.

She saw in this collision with Maurice the beginning of sorrows; she feared that the under-current of misunderstanding, once set in, would be difficult to arrest ; and did it not give evidence that the lesson in which he had seemed so much interested was, after all, a failure? Yes; were it not that seed generally remains hidden-dies away ere the blade be put forth. Such experiences show to a teacher his or her own insufficiency unaided by the Spirit of God. In increased consciousness of this, she, after an interval of perhaps a quarter-of-an-hour, approached her pupil as his unwelcome task drew near its completion.

"Your Papa is anxious that you should write a good hand, Maurice. I think you might if you would but consider it worth your while," and she looked at the page of heavy, black characters before her.

Maurice looked at it too. It contrasted strangely with the copper-plate. His face said, "I know it's horrid," but hers did not express any surprise.

In her kindest tones she said, "I like your writing, there is character in it. I like anything that has character; but I like neatness and finish too. You have that to cultivate."

Maurice began to feel a little ashamed of himself.

"And now," she said, "to oblige me, will you lay aside your Greek for a day or two? I can scarcely

hope to be of much assistance to you till I have had a little time to collect my thoughts and arrange my plans."

What could Maurice do but yield? He looked up into his governess's face, not with his usual deep, penetrative gaze, but with an expression of frank apology and gratitude for the delicate consideration which every word and look of hers conveyed. The school-day passed over without any further difficulty.

Night saw Maurice again a sufferer, smitten down with pain, suddenly, as an animal is struck low by a barb; he again, with tremulous step, sought his chamber, and lay down to endure his ordeal. No one through this might visit him but his mother. Only could he bear that her eyes should look upon the agony which, in his idea, unmanned him. Maurice's love for his mother was as yet the strongest love of his nature. He had a marvellous veneration for her tenderness. His affection for her was inwoven with every fibre of his being. In her frequent watch beside him, she seemed, in a mysterious way, to have suffered with him. Mrs. Dalgleish, that very evening, asked to see him; but, ere she could cross the threshold of his door, her step was arrested by the decided tones, rendered sharp by physical anguish

'No thank

you, I am not very well; but shall be better soon. I only want mamma with me."

The next day Mabel would have intruded, but though the storm of pain was subsiding, it had not altogether passed, and she, too, met with denial.

Mabel felt very much hurt. Had she been ill she would have liked Maurice to come and see her. She was already proving that the coveted flower of his regard grew on a very prickly stem. The schoolroom seemed to her very dull without him, especially as there was, as yet, but little doing in it. Every one was to be put in working order next week; this Mrs. Dalgleish was contemplating the materials on which she had to work, and maturing her plans.

Towards the close of the day Maurice was better; he lay on the couch in his room, calm, but exhausted, looking like a wearied victor, for nothing was more remarkable than the way in which he battled with his sufferings and triumphed over them. Mrs. Dalgleish was determined to see him; so, only announcing herself by a gentle tap, she entered without waiting for his high permission. For a wonder he was not offended at the pity in her eyes when she took her seat beside him. He permitted the soft touch of her hand, as it wandered over his temples and put back from them the masses of dark hair.

F