tween the sublime and the
ridiculous. She had told the master the state of the weather--which, for
once, was sublime; she wanted him, in return, to tell her the state of
her boy's soul--which was ridiculous.

Eustace forgot the other fellow's sister, her limpid eyes, her
open-worked stockings, her panoply of chiffons and of charms. He
had heard his own name. Bang went the door on the rest of the world,
shutting out even feminine humanity. Self-consciousness held him
listening. His mother said:

"Dear Eustace! What do you think of him, Mr. Bembridge? Is he _really_
clever? His father and I consider him unusually intelligent for his
age--so advanced in mind. He judges for himself, you know. He always
did, even as a baby. I remember when he was quite a tiny mite I could
always trust to his perceptions. In my choice of nurses I was invariably
guided by him. If he screamed at them I felt that there was something
wrong, and dismissed them--of course with a character. If he smiled at
them, I knew I could have confidence in their virtue. How strange these
things are! What is it in us that screams at evil and smiles at good?"

"Ah! what, indeed?" replied the master, accepting her conclusion as an
established and very beautiful fact. "There is more in the human heart
than you and I can fathom, Mrs. Lane."

"Yes, indeed! But tell me about Eustace. You have observed him?"

"Carefully. He is a strange boy."

"Strange?"

"Whimsical, I mean. How clever he may be I am unable to say. He is so
young, and, of course, undeveloped. But he is an original. Even if he
never displays great talents the world will talk about him."

"Why?" asked Mrs. Lane in some alarm.

To be talked about was, she considered, to be the prey of
scandalmongers. She did not wish to give her darling to the lions.

"I mean that Eustace has a strain of quaint fun in him--a sort of
passion for the burlesque of life. You do not often find this in boys.
It is new to my experience. He sees the peculiar side of everything with
a curious acuteness. Life presents itself to him in caricature. I------
Well hit! Well hit indeed!"

Someone had scored a four.

The other fellow's sister insisted on moving to a place whence they
could see the cricket better, and Eustace had to yield to her. But from
that moment he took no more interest in her artless remarks and her
artful open-worked stockings. In the combat between self and her she
went to the wall. He stood up befo