But it was in the school, in the duty which lay nearest to her, that Grace’s inward loveliness shone most lovely.  Whatever dark cloud of melancholy lay upon her own heart, she took care that it should never overshadow one of those young innocents, whom she taught by love and ruled by love, always tender, always cheerful, even gay and playful; punishing, when she rarely punished, with tears and kisses.  To make them as happy as she could in a world where there was nothing but temptation, and disappointment, and misery; to make them “fit for heaven,” and then to pray that they might go thither as speedily as possible, this had been her work for now seven years; and that Manichaeism which has driven darker and harder natures to destroy young children, that they might go straight to bliss, took in her the form of outpourings of gratitude (when the first natural tears were dried), as often as one of her little lambs was “delivered out of the miseries of this sinful world.”  But as long as they were in the world, she was their guardian angel; and there was hardly a mother in Aberalva who did not confess her debt to Grace, not merely for her children’s scholarship, but for their characters.

Frank Headley the curate, therefore, had touched altogether the wrong chord when he spoke of displacing Grace.  And when, that same afternoon, he sauntered down to the pier-head, wearied with his parish work, not only did Tardrew stump away in silence as soon as he appeared, but Captain Willis’s face assumed a grave and severe look, which was not often to be seen on it.

“Well, Captain Willis?” said Frank, solitary and sad; longing for a talk with, some one, and not quite sure whether he was welcome.

“Well, sir?” and the old man lifted his hat, and made one of his princely bows.  “You look tired, sir; I am afraid you’re doing too much.”

“I shall have more to do, soon,” said the curate, his eye glancing towards the schoolmistress, who, disturbed by the noise above, was walking slowly up the beach, with a child holding to every finger, and every fold of her dress.

Willis saw the direction of his eye, and came at once to the point, in his gentle, straightforward fashion.

“I hear you have thoughts of taking the school from her, sir?”

“Why—­indeed—­I shall be very sorry; but if she will persist in going to the chapel, I cannot overlook the sin of schism.”

“She takes the children to church twice a Sunday, don’t she?  And teaches them all that you tell her—­”

“Why—­yes—­I have taken the religious instruction almost into my own hands now.”

Willis smiled quietly.

“You’ll excuse an old sailor, sir; but I think that’s more than mortal man can do.  There’s no hour of the day but what she’s teaching them something.  She’s telling them Bible stories now, I’ll warrant, if you could hear her.”

Frank made no answer.

“You wouldn’t stop her doing that?  Oh, sir,” and the old man spoke with a quiet earnestness which was not without its effect, “just look at her now, like the Good Shepherd with His lambs about His feet, and think whether that’s not much too pretty a sight to put an end to, in a poor sinful world like this.”