Here the unfortunate child fell forward with a shriek.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir,” said Beatrice aloud.

She had been listening to all this ill-judged rant with growing indignation, and now, in her excitement, entirely forgot that she was in a place of worship.  Then she ran forward to the child, who had swooned.  Poor little unfortunate, she never recovered the shock.  When she came to herself, it was found that her finely strung mind had given way, and she lapsed into a condition of imbecility.  But her imbecility was not always passive.  Occasionally fits of passionate terror would seize upon her.  She would cry out that the fiends were coming to drag her down to torment, and dash herself against the wall, in fear hideous to behold.  Then it was found that there was but one way to calm her:  it was to send for Beatrice.  Beatrice would come and take the poor thin hands in hers and gaze with her calm deep eyes upon the wasted horror-stricken face till the child grew quiet again and, shivering, sobbed herself to sleep upon her breast.

And so it was with all the children; her power over them was almost absolute.  They loved her, and she loved them all.

And now the schooling was almost done for the day.  It was Beatrice’s custom to make the children sing some simple song before they broke up.  She stood in front of them and gave the time while they sung, and a pretty sight it was to see her do it.  On this particular afternoon, just as the first verse was finished, the door of the room opened, and Owen Davies entered, bearing some books under his arm.  Beatrice glanced round and saw him, then, with a quick stamp of her foot, went on giving the time.

The children sung lustily, and in front of them stood Beatrice, dressed in simple white, her graceful form swaying as she marked the music’s time.  Nearer and nearer drew Owen Davies, till at length he stood quite close, his lips slightly apart, his eyes fixed upon her like the eyes of one who dreams, and his slow heavy face faintly lit with the glow of strong emotion.

The song ended, the children at a word from their mistress filed past her, headed by the pupil teachers, and then with a shout, seizing their caps, ran forth this way and that, welcoming the free air.  When they were all gone, and not till then, Beatrice turned suddenly round.

“How do you do, Mr. Davies?” she said.

He started visibly.  “I did not know that you had seen me,” he answered.

“Oh, yes, I saw you, Mr. Davies, only I could not stop the song to say how do you do.  By the way, I have to thank you for coming to inquire after me.”

“Not at all, Miss Beatrice, not at all; it was a most dreadful accident.  I cannot tell you how thankful I am—­I can’t, indeed.”

“It is very good of you to take so much interest in me,” said Beatrice.

“Not at all, Miss Beatrice, not at all.  Who—­who could help taking interest in you?  I have brought you some books—­the Life of Darwin—­it is in two volumes.  I think that I have heard you say that Darwin interests you?”