t to be beaten, and many, many times she must have admitted
herself beaten as badly as any one can be.

Her life with the people downstairs was not intimate enough, nor were
those people themselves perceptive enough for any realisation of what
was occurring to penetrate.

"I hope you're happy with the children, Miss Jones," once or twice said
Mrs. Cole.

"Very, thank you," said Miss Jones.

"They're good children, I think, although parents are always prejudiced,
of course. Jeremy is a little difficult perhaps. It's so hard to tell
what he's really thinking. You find him a quiet, reserved little boy?"

"Very," said Miss Jones.

"In a little while, when you know him better, he will come out. Only you
have to let him take his time. He doesn't like to be forced--"

"No," said Miss Jones.

Meanwhile, that morning descent into the schoolroom was real hell
for her. She had to summon up her courage, walking about her bedroom,
pressing her hands together, evoking the memory of her magnificent
iron-souled brother, who would, she knew, despise such tremors. If only
she could have discovered some remedy! But sentiment, attempted tyranny,
anger, contempt, at all these things they laughed. She could not touch
them anywhere. And she saw Jeremy as a real child of Evil in the very
baldest sense. She could not imagine how anyone so young could be
so cruel, so heartless, so maliciously clever in his elaborate
machinations. She regarded him with real horror, and on the occasions
when she found him acting kindly towards his sisters or a servant, or
when she watched him discoursing solemnly to Hamlet, she was helplessly
puzzled, and decided that these better manifestations were simply masks
to hide his devilish young heart. She perceived meanwhile the inevitable
crisis slowly approaching, when she would be compelled to invite Mrs.
Cole's support. That would mean her dismissal and a hopeless future.
There was no one to whom she might turn. She had not a relation, not a
friend--too late to make friends now.

She could see nothing in front of her at all.

The crisis did come, but not as she expected it.

There arrived a morning when the dark mist outside and badly made
porridge inside tempted the children to their very worst. Miss Jones
had had a wakeful night struggling with neuralgia and her own hesitating
spirit. The children had lost even their customary half-humourous,
half-contemptuous reserve. They let themselves appear for