e vasty deep were Dr. Blimber and Cornelia. With an
inconvenient perversity, they refused to be laid, and kept dancing
before me all day. In entering upon my career, I was firmly impressed
with two convictions: one was that I didn't know anything, and the other
was that my pupils would speedily find it out.

The day began, as all sorts of days do; and through the open door of the
adjoining apartment I watched Mr. Summers, and endeavored to follow all
his proceedings. When he rang his bell, I rang mine; and, by dint of
looking as wise and sober as I possibly could, I contrived to begin with
a tolerable degree of success.

But a pair of clear eyes, that never seemed to be removed from my face,
embarrassed me beyond expression. Their owner was a perfect bugbear.
Such a formidable memory I never encountered; and in her recitations,
which were long and frequent, I do not think she ever misplaced a
letter. That girl had algebra written on her face; and when, in a slow,
deliberate way, she approached me with slate, pencil, and book, I felt
sure that this would prove my Manassas. I was inexpressibly relieved to
discover that the problems, complicated enough to bring on a slow fever,
were all unravelled; indeed, my feelings bore no small resemblance to
those of a criminal at the gallows just presented with a reprieve.

All that I had to do was to say, 'Very well, indeed, Miss Legram; are
you fond of algebra?' To which she replied, 'Very,' and went back to her
seat.

Going in to Mr. Summers for some private instructions, I found his desk
covered with votive offerings, as though it had been the shrine of some
deity to be propitiated. There were large winter apples; hard winter
pears; bunches of chrysanthemum; bags of chestnuts, and even popped
corn; but the parcel that received the most honorable treatment was a
paper of black-walnut kernels, carefully arranged and presented by a
little, mild-eyed lame girl. I made a note of that.

With the dignity of a professor, Mr. Summers solved my difficulties;
while I meekly listened, and wondered if this could be the half-boyish
individual who had lifted me from the cars. He did not look over
twenty-three, though, and, if not strictly handsome, had had a very
narrow escape of it. His hair had a way of getting into his eyes, and he
had a way of tossing it back as horses toss their manes; and this motion
invariably brings up a train of associations connected with Mr. Summers.

The day's