“They are like work,” she said. “‘Working hours,’ they are named; and I suppose some hard thinking is done.  If I didn’t have to teach school six hours out of every day at home I might be tempted to go in and listen to them; but I came here to play, you see, and to make money; they are not good to report about.  People who stay at home and read the reported letters don’t want to hear anything about the actual work; they want to know who the speaker was and how he looked, and whether his gestures were graceful, and—­if it is a lady—­above all, how she was dressed; if they say anything remarkably sarcastic or irresistibly funny you may venture to report it, but not otherwise, consequently reporting is easy work, if you have not too much conscience, because what you didn’t see you can make up.”

At the end of this harangue she paused suddenly before a tent, whence came the sound of a firm and distinct voice.

“What is this?” she said, and then she lifted a bit of the canvas and peeped in.  “I’m going in here, after all,” she said, withdrawing her head and explaining.  “This is a normal class, I guess.  That man from Philadelphia—­what is his name?  Tyler?  Yes, that is it—­J.  Bennet Tyler—­is leading.  I like him; I like his voice ever so much; he makes you hear, whether you want to or not.  Then, someway, you get a kind of a notion that he not only believes what he says but that he knows it is so, and that is all there is about it.  I like to meet such people now and then, because they are so rare.  Generally people act as though you could coax them out of their notions in about twenty minutes if you tried—­when they are talking about religious subjects, I mean.  Obstinacy is not so rare a trait where other matters are concerned.  Let’s go in.”

“What is the subject this morning?” Eurie asked, following her guide around to the entrance, somewhat reluctantly.  She was in no mood for shutting herself inside a tent, and being obliged to listen whether she wanted to or not.  But Marion was in one of her positive moods this morning, and must either be followed or deserted altogether.

Mr. Tyler was reading from a slip of paper as they entered.  This was the sentence he read: 

“Difficulties in interpretation which arise from certain mental peculiarities of the student.  Some minds, and not by any means the strongest or noblest, must always see the reason for everything.”

Marion gave Eurie a sagacious nod of the head.

“Don’t you see?” she said.  “Now, by the peculiar way in which he read that, he made believe it was me he meant.  And, by the way, I’m not sure but he is correct.  I must say that I like a reason for things.  But what right has he to say that that is an indication of a weak mind?”

“He didn’t say so,” whispered Eurie.

“Oh, yes he did; it amounted to that.  There is where his peculiar use of words comes in.  That man has studied words until he handles them as if they were foot-balls, and were to go exactly where he sent them.”