fellow so nervous that it was almost equally difficult to hear or understand what he said or wanted to say. The third was the angel, and by comparison with the other two he shone. He had a fairly good presence, was fairly well dressed, and seemed quite at his ease. His "form" was nothing to boast of. A pass in the Senior Cambridge Local was his nearest approach to University distinction, but he appeared to have attended an amazing number of lectures on an extraordinary variety of subjects, and he had a reasonably good testimonial from his late headmaster.

"Have you any musical qualifications?" asked the chairman.

"I took a course of lectures on the Dalcroze Eurhythmics," answered the angel.

"Ah, indeed," said the Chairman, "but I'm afraid I'm not much the wiser."

"I've seen about them," remarked Miss Phipps, opening her bag as if she thought they might possibly be inside it.

"It's a system of musical theory applied to physical exercises," the angel airily explained.

"Can you play the piano for the children to march to?" demanded Mrs. Goodwin, who was practical.

"Oh yes," replied the angel with an easy nod; "there's not much difficulty in that."

"And play a hymn-tune?" pursued the Rev. Mr. Cobbe.

"That's easier still, isn't it?" said the angel.

"I should like to ask, Mr. Chairman" -it was the voice of an obscure manager in the dark corner of the room— "if this gentleman can teach swimming."

"I never have taught it," answered the angel, and then added, with a confidential smile, "but I know how to keep my own head out of the water."

"What a contrast to the other young

man!" exclaimed Miss Phipps after the angel had retired. "So easy and selfpossessed."

"Just a little tiny bit too much, do you think?" asked Mrs. Goodwin.

"It's a good fault nowadays, especially for dealing with boys," said the Chairman. "Will someone make a proposition?"

"I propose that we recommend the appointment of the last candidate, Mr. -oh yes-Mr. Wilson," said the Rev. Mr. Cobbe.

"I second that," said the voice from the corner.

"Carried unanimously," declared the Chairman.

So the angel came to Chignett Street.

II.

Before the angel had been at work for a week, Mr. Worth, the headmaster, was very much of Mrs. Goodwin's opinion. The new master did seem just a little too self-assured. His nonchalance almost amounted to a challenge. He was not in the least rude or insubordinate, but he seemed to look upon the school, and the L. C. C., and the whole educational system as matters of very slight importance. He did not disguise his amusement at the fussy importance of the managers, and the hope he expressed of a speedy visit from the inspectors sounded strange if not absolutely unnatural.

In the ordinary course, a new teacher would have been set to take one of the lowest standards. This vacancy, however, had arisen unexpectedly in the middle of the summer term owing to the sudden breakdown of Mr. Payne, who had been in charge of the Fourth. Here the boys were, on the average, between ten and eleven, and among them were three or four unusually bright lads and a rather heavy contingent of dunces. The Fourth is an important standard, because by the

time a boy leaves it he has generally shown pretty plainly what the rest of his school career is likely to be. Still, there were only a few weeks to run before the summer holidays, and it did not seem worth while upsetting the other classes. So Mr. Wilson was introduced to the boys of Standard IV. as their new teacher.

For the first few days there was hesitation and uncertainty, followedon the part of the boys-by experiment. They knew perfectly well that only a master of a certain standing has the power of the cane. It was all-important to find out how Mr. Wilson stood in this respect. He was youthful in appearance, and the general opinion was that he was not qualified. Brickell was the chief exponent of this view, and so confident was he that he offered to furnish a test case, and. what is more, did it. It was just at the end of Mr. Wilson's first week. Late in the afternoon he noticed a good deal of turning round, and bending over, and whispering, which seemed to centre round a big, red-faced, loutishlooking boy at the very back of the room.

The master pointed to him. "What's your name?" he asked. "Brickell," answered the boy, in a surly voice.

"Stand up on the form."

"What for? I wasn't doin' nothin'."

"Stand up!" repeated Mr. Wilson, with rising anger.

All eyes turned eagerly from boy to master and back again.

"Last time," said Mr. Wilson loudly. "Stand up!"

Brickell looked down, redder and sulkier than ever and made no movement.

Mr. Wilson turned to a boy on the front row.

"Culpepper," he said, "go to Mr. Worth and ask him if he'll be good

enough to let me have the cane and the punishment book."

Brickell's face fell. He was no hero. "I'll stand up," he said, almost politely.

But Mr. Wilson was not in a melting mood.

"I think you will," he answered, “after you've had the cane."

And when the squat little instrument of doom appeared, he administered a couple of strokes with such unexpected vigor that Brickell fairly howled, and any lingering doubts as to the master's qualifications were swept clean away.

III.

When the school work began again after the summer holidays, the angel found himself in command of Standard III. He made no difficulty about the Standard: perhaps Mr. Worth might have been better pleased if he had done so. It was the young master's smiling indifference, his air of looking upon the school and all its concerns as matters of very small importance, that irritated him. At the same time he was puzzled by what seemed an inconsistency. Over and over again he surprised Mr. Wilson watching, with what seemed keen, almost strained, atten. tion, some very commonplace personit might be a master or a boy-sometimes it was the caretaker. He made no friends among the masters, but the nearest approach to friendship was with poor old Mr. Salter, whom all the rest looked upon as a butt for goodhumored jokes. And then there was his ridiculous fancy for the boy Caxton.

Caxton too was a butt-the dunce of Standard V. He was a big, heavylooking boy, well over thirteen, plump and pasty-cheeked, with a slow, hesitating manner of speech. His arithmetic-the touchstone in an elementary school-was incredibly bad, and what seemed a rooted habit of inattention made him an easy prey to any

chance question. In contradiction to physical laws he rose by sheer weight, and his sums were marked wrong as a matter of course. Mr. Payne had given him up as hopeless, and his nickname in the class was "Barmy."

For a little more that three weeks after Mr. Payne's departure, the boy had been in Mr. Wilson's class, and during the first fortnight the new master had accepted the class estimate and let Caxton severely alone. Then, a week before the holidays, he had set as a subject for composition "How I like to read a book," and amid the dozens of dull, stiff, clumsy little essays that he hardly troubled to correct, he had found one, not immaculate as to spelling and grammar, but in style as different from the rest as a real artist's sketch is from a beach photographer's portrait. Eagerly he looked for the name and found it scrawled outside"William Caxton." He turned back to the composition. "There are some books," he read, "such as 'Ivanhoe' or 'David Copperfield,' that when you lie on the floor in front of the fire and read them, it seems as if they were talking to you like friends."

The next morning, Mr. Wilson called Caxton up to his table and gave him a bright new shilling.

"There," he said, "that's for the first really good piece of work I've seen since I came to Chignett Street."

On such occasions the boys almost invariably applauded. But this time astonishment was so great that, except for the master's words and a mumbled "Thank you, Sir," the shilling was given and taken in absolute silence. But from that day the boy always waited to walk home with the master, and, whenever a chance offered in the playground or the park, they were sure to be found together. And when, not long afterwards, Caxton, then bottom boy in the Fifth Standard, came out third in all London

for the essay prizes offered by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, Mr. Worth admitted to himself that the new member of his staff had, in one respect, at any rate, shown some discernment.

IV.

In other respects, however, the angel was not a success. At the Christmas examinations, Standard III. made such a poor show that Mr. Worth felt obliged to make an unfavorable entry in the report book, which he showed the culprit.

"I very much dislike doing it," he said, "but just look at those arithmetic papers. They're too bad to pass over."

"Yes," answered the angel, with a pleasant smile, "they are careless little devils, aren't they? Let's hope they'll improve."

Mr. Worth frowned.

"We will," he said with strong emphasis, "and in your interests as much as in theirs."

"Oh, of course," said the angel unabashed.

Then there was the music. Mr. Payne, though not a great pianist, had been a decided improvement, as an accompanist, on his predecessor, so when the school reopened in September Mr. Worth asked the new master if he would play the hymn-tune for the opening.

"I'll try, if you like," answered the angel readily enough. "May I choose the hymn?"

He chose a long-metre hymn to the Old Hundredth, which he played in fine style, with his eyes on Mr. Worth.

But the two following days he chose long metres again. and to each he played Old Hundredth. On the afternoon of the third day Mr. Worth asked some of the elder boys to stay after school was over, in order to practise a few wand exercises for the

Prize-giving, which had been fixed earlier than usual.

"I wonder if Mr. Wilson could stop and play for us," he added, looking towards his assistant.

"Oh yes, certainly; I dare say I can manage something in four time," was the cheerful answer.

But when the word of command was given and the wands lifted, the piano struck up the Old Hundredth once more, only, this time, played allegro. The boys tittered, and Mr. Worth frowned. He walked across to the performer and spoke in a low voice.

"Is that the only tune you can play?" he asked.

Mr. Wilson nodded. "It's the only one I know," he answered.

The headmaster pointed to a book. "There are a lot of marches in there," he said; "can't you read music?"

"Not a note," replied the angel with undisturbed serenity. "I do it all by ear."

Six months later, when visits to the swimming baths were being discussed, Mr. Worth turned to the angel.

"Let's see: you're a swimmer, aren't you, Mr. Wilson?" he asked.

Mr. Wilson shook his head emphatically.

"Not a yard; not a stroke," he answered.

"That's funny," remarked Mr Worth, looking puzzled. "It was only the other day that I was talking it over with Miss Phipps. She said she was sure you'd lend a hand. She remembered your telling the managers that you knew how to keep your head out of the water."

"Oh yes, that's right enough. I can keep my head out of the water."

"Well, how do you manage it?" asked the headmaster a little impatiently.

"By never going in," answered the angel simply.

They found it even more puzzling than engaging, an absolutely unfamiliar type. He welcomed them with a smiling urbanity which somehow seemed to put them in the wrong from the first. Without a word to which they could take exception, he managed to convey the impression that it was they who were new and remarkable types, awakening in him a keen and vivid interest. He listened to their criticisms, exhortations, and warnings with a quiet air of detachment, considering and weighing, it seemed, their views, and reserving his own judgment. Of nervousness, confusion, or apprehension there was not a trace, but a strong though well-controlled sense of humor was always in evidence.

"Look here, Mr. Wilson," said Mr. Turton, who was a new broom and thought himself a vacuum cleaner at least, "this won't do at all."

And he pointed to the fatal entries. "They're not very encouraging, are they?" answered the offender, with a courteous smile.

"It's got to be altered," the Inspector declared.

"Or where shall we be?" echoed the teacher.

"Oh, there's not much doubt about that," answered Mr. Turton, smiling too, but grimly. "In one of the com

mittee-rooms on the first floor at the Embankment."

An expression of quick interest lit up the young man's face.

"That must be quite an experience," he said. "Truth beats fiction any day. I've been told that those committees are a caricature of Dickens."

זי

"As mad as a March hare," said the Inspector to the headmaster. never came across such a specimen before. Has he any points as a teacher?"

"Well," answered Mr. Worth, "he's not a fool, in some ways. If he's roused, he can come down on a boy pretty sharply. And a good many of the boys like him. On Fridays he generally reads to them for the last half-hour or so, and you can hear the laughing on the other side of the hall. There's no doubt of his popularity for that half-hour."

"What does he read to them?" asked the Inspector curiously.

"Why, that's as mad as the rest. His favorite literature seems to be The Trumpet-you know, the Sunday paper. There's some man who writes sketches there, and Mr. Wilson seems to be a great admirer of them. Mr. Rose showed me one the other day, and it really was rather funny. I must say 1 should have thought they were over the boys' heads, but they seem to love them. Some of the sketches are about the schools. That may have put it into Wilson's head."

"Well, I've spoken pretty plainly to him. I told him he was heading straight for the Embankment."

"What did he say?"

"Oh, he seemed to enjoy the prospect."

"No accounting for tastes," remarked the headmaster.

VI.

The angel's tragedy moved on quickly to its final scene on the Victoria Embankment. Before this was

reached there had been special visits by the Inspectors, and the managers had devoted an entire meeting to a discussion of the case. Now, the Teaching Staff Sub-committee had expressed a desire to interview Mr. A. W. Wilson, and to the same feast had been bidden the headmaster, and the Rev. Mr. Cobbe as a representative of the managers.

The appointed time was 12.10 p. m., and by 12 the head and his assistant were cooling their heels in the waitingroom. The difference in their demeanor was striking. Mr. Worth was evidently troubled. He fidgeted about, walked from door to window and back again, looked at the official literature on the table and then threw it down, and pulled out his watch half a dozen times. Mr. Wilson, on the other hand, showed not the slightest trace of discomposure. He sat down in the least uncomfortable chair, pulled out from his pocket a copy of the Daily Telegraph and read on with undisturbed serenity. At first there were two other occupants of the room, but after a while they went out. Mr. Worth came across to his subordinate.

"Look here, Wilson," he said, "they'll ask me about you, in there. I shall have to tell the truth, but I'll let you down as lightly as ever I can. I really am thoroughly upset. I'm sure you could do quite well if you made up your mind to. If you tell them so, I don't believe they'll be very hard on you. I dare say the Chairman will read you a lecture"

"Oh, don't worry about it," interrupted the angel, looking cherubic if not angelic. "I quite understand. You've been very kind, all through. It's all experience too, isn't it? And so interesting!" he added as an afterthought, and to himself, for Mr. Worth, with an impatient shrug of his shoulders, had gone out into the corridor. A minute or two afterwards, the liv