t round the class. And Hill was on her
conscience. At last he had stopped crying, and sat bunched over
his hands, playing quietly. Then he looked up at her. His face
was dirty with tears, his eyes had a curious washed look, like
the sky after rain, a sort of wanness. He bore no malice. He had
already forgotten, and was waiting to be restored to the normal
position.

"Go on with your work, Hill," she said.

The children were playing over their arithmetic, and, she
knew, cheating thoroughly. She wrote another sum on the
blackboard. She could not get round the class. She went again to
the front to watch. Some were ready. Some were not. What was she
to do?

At last it was time for recreation. She gave the order to
cease working, and in some way or other got her class out of the
room. Then she faced the disorderly litter of blotted,
uncorrected books, of broken rulers and chewed pens. And her
heart sank in sickness. The misery was getting deeper.

The trouble went on and on, day after day. She had always
piles of books to mark, myriads of errors to correct, a
heart-wearying task that she loathed. And the work got worse and
worse. When she tried to flatter herself that the composition
grew more alive, more interesting, she had to see that the
handwriting grew more and more slovenly, the books more filthy
and disgraceful. She tried what she could, but it was of no use.
But she was not going to take it seriously. Why should she? Why
should she say to herself, that it mattered, if she failed to
teach a class to write perfectly neatly? Why should she take the
blame unto herself?

Pay day came, and she received four pounds two shillings and
one penny. She was very proud that day. She had never had so
much money before. And she had earned it all herself. She sat on
the top of the tram-car fingering the gold and fearing she might
lose it. She felt so established and strong, because of it. And
when she got home she said to her mother:

"It is pay day to-day, mother."

"Ay," said her mother, coolly.

Then Ursula put down fifty shillings on the table.

"That is my board," she said.

"Ay," said her mother, letting it lie.

Ursula was hurt. Yet she had paid her scot. She was free. She
paid for what she had. There remained moreover thirty-two
shillings of her own. She would not spend any, she who was
naturally a spendthrift, because she could not bear to damage
her fine gold.

She had a standing ground now apart from h