ion. Very good. I've
no doubt we shall get on together."

"Between ourselves, Bartram," whispered Master Arthur into his
friend's ear, "the class is composed of boys who ought to have been to
school, and haven't; or who have been, and are none the better for it.
Some of them can what they call 'read in the Testament,' and all of
them confound b and d when they meet with them. They are at one point
of general information--namely, they all know what you have just told
them, and will none of them know it by next time. I call it the
rag-tag and bob-tail class. John says they are like forced tulips.
They won't blossom simultaneously. He can't get them all to one
standard of reading."

Mr. Lindsay laughed and said--

"He had better read less, and try a little general oral instruction.
Perhaps they don't remember because they can't understand;"--and the
Rector coming in at that moment, the business of the evening
commenced.

Having afterwards to cross the school for something, Bill passed the
new teacher and his class, and came to the conclusion that they did
"get on together," and very well too. The rag-tag and bob-tail shone
that night, and afterwards were loud in praises of the lesson. "It was
so clear," and "He was so patient." Indeed, patience was one great
secret of Mr. Lindsay's teaching; he waited so long for an answer that
he generally got it. His pupils were obliged to exert themselves when
there was no hope of being passed over, and everybody was waiting.
Finally, Bill's share of the arithmetic lesson converted him to Master
Arthur's friend. He _was_ a clever young gentleman, and a kind one
too.

The lesson had been so interesting--the clever young gentleman,
standing (without his eye-glass) by the blackboard, had been so strict
and yet so entertaining, was so obviously competent, and so pleasantly
kind, that Bill, who liked arithmetic, and (like all intelligent
children) appreciated good teaching, had had no time to think of the
Yew-lane Ghost till the lesson was ended. It was not till the hymn
began (they always ended the night-school with singing), then he
remembered it. Then, while he was shouting with all his might Bishop
Ken's glorious old lines--

"Keep me, oh keep me, King of kings,"

he caught Mr. Lindsay's eyes fixed on him, and back came the thoughts
of his terrible fright, with a little shame too at his own timidity.
Which of us trusts as we should do in the "defence of the Most High?"

B