Mr. Hewitt was very grave and silent in school on Thursday morning. He passed over mistakes and wrote wrong figures on the blackboard, and had dark lines under his eyes, as if he had slept badly or had a tooth­ache.

In the middle of the history class the curate came in hastily with an anxious look, and said: "Come out here a minute, will you, Hewitt? I want to speak to you."

They went out of the room, and for some time the boys yawned and fidgetted, lolling at their desks.

"Hullo!" said Charlie Thompson, who was looking out of the window. "That's the Roscoe girl."

Jim Greaves sprang up with a quick, startled cry; and then sat down again. Jack glanced carelessly out of the window. Mag­gie Roscoe was walking away down the road, clinging to the curate's arm, and sobbing bitterly.

"I wonder what's wrong with her?" he thought; and, then, after a moment: "And what's wrong with everybody? All the school's in the dumps to-day."

Mr. Hewitt came back and went on with the class; but his hand was shaking as he held the book.

Presently he pulled himself together and began irritably cross-examining the boys and finding fault over trifles. He was usually a patient teacher, if a dull one; but now everything seemed to annoy him. When the morning classes were finished, he called up Jack and reprimanded him sharply before the school. A window had been found to be broken. "You were seen pitching up stones in the road yesterday. That makes the third pane of glass this term!"

Jack shrugged his shoulders. He had not been throwing stones, and had picked up the pebbles only because of their coloured mark­ings; but if Mr. Hewitt chose to put himself in the wrong by taking things for granted, why should one undeceive him?