But Grace thought ruefully of all her high-flown plans for this Sunday
class, and felt that it was a terrible descent to be restricted to the
"Third Primer." But Geordie seemed convinced that through this dog-eared
volume lay the only royal road to learning. He had already opened the
book at one of the little lessons near the end which he seemed to think
he had not sufficiently mastered in the "schoolin' days" already far
away in the distance to the little herd-boy. He still stood by Grace's
side at the table, and his finger travelled slowly along the page as he
read, in the nasal sing-song tone in which the reading functions were
performed at the parish school, one of those meaningless little
paragraphs that are supposed to be best adapted by the compilers of
primers for teaching the young idea how to shoot.

Grace sat listening, rather perplexed as to what course it would be best
to pursue. This certainly was not the kind of ideal Sunday-class which
she had in her mind all these months; indeed, this "Third Primer" was
hardly orthodox food for Sunday at all, according to her ideas; and yet
Geordie was laboriously travelling over the page with a dogged
earnestness which she did not know how to divert into any other channel
without doing harm in some shape or other. But presently help came to
her from a quarter where she had least expected it.

Jean, who had been seated on the form unnoticed for several minutes,
listening to Geordie's earnest but uninteresting sing-song, as he stood
at the table leaning over his lesson-book, got tired of her neglected
situation, and descending from her high seat, she planted her sturdy
little legs on the floor, saying, in a decided tone, as she stumped away
towards the door, "Geordie, I'm tired sittin' here. I'm away home."
Jean's words fell like a thunderbolt both on Geordie and Grace. The
blood mounted to the boy's face, and his earnest blue eyes turned