sat down to tea.

II

It was unfortunate that there was so little precedent on both sides.
Miss Jones had never been a governess before and the children had never
had one. Of course, many mistakes were made. Miss Jones had had a true
admiration for what she used to call "her brother's indomitable spirit,"
her name for his selfishness and bad temper. She was herself neither
selfish nor bad-tempered, but she was ignorant, nervous, over-anxious,
and desperately afraid of losing her situation. She had during so many
years lived without affection that the wells of it had dried up within
her, and now, without being at all a bad old lady, she was simply
preoccupied with the business of managing her neuralgia, living
on nothing a week, and building to her deceased brother's memory a
monument, of heroic character and self-sacrifice. She was short-sighted
and had a perpetual cold; she was forgetful and careless. She had,
nevertheless, a real knowledge of many things, a warm heart somewhere
could she be encouraged to look for it again, and a sense of humour
buried deep beneath her cares and preoccupations. There were many worse
persons in the world than Miss Jones. But, most unfortunately, her
love for her brother's memory led her to resolve on what she called
"firmness." Mrs. Cole had told her that Jeremy was "getting too much"
for his nurse; she approached Jeremy with exactly the tremors and
quaking boldness that she would have summoned to her aid before a
bull loose in a field. She really did look frightening with her large
spectacles on the end of her large nose, her mouth firmly set, and a
ruler in her hand. "I insist on absolute obedience," was her motto.
Jeremy looked at her but said no word. It was made clear to them all
that the new regime was to be far other than the earlier nursery one.
There were to be regular lesson hours--nine to twelve and four to five.
A neat piece of white paper was fastened to the wall with "Monday:
Geography 9-10, Arithmetic 10-11," and so on. A careful graduation of
punishments was instituted, copies to be written so many times, standing
on a chair, three strokes on the hand with a ruler, and, worst of all,
standing in the corner wearing a paper Dunce's cap. (This last she had
read of in books.) At first Jeremy had every intention of behaving well,
in spite of that unfortunate embrace. He was proud of his advance in
life; he was no longer a baby; the nursery was now a schoolroom; he