"No," said Miss Jones.

Meanwhile, that morning descent into the schoolroom was real hell
for her. She had to summon up her courage, walking about her
bedroom, pressing her hands together, evoking the memory of her
magnificent iron-souled brother, who would, she knew, despise such
tremors. If only she could have discovered some remedy! But
sentiment, attempted tyranny, anger, contempt, at all these things
they laughed. She could not touch them anywhere. And she saw Jeremy
as a real child of Evil in the very baldest sense. She could not
imagine how anyone so young could be so cruel, so heartless, so
maliciously clever in his elaborate machinations. She regarded him
with real horror, and on the occasions when she found him acting
kindly towards his sisters or a servant, or when she watched him
discoursing solemnly to Hamlet, she was helplessly puzzled, and
decided that these better manifestations were simply masks to hide
his devilish young heart. She perceived meanwhile the inevitable
crisis slowly approaching, when she would be compelled to invite
Mrs. Cole's support. That would mean her dismissal and a hopeless
future. There was no one to whom she might turn. She had not a
relation, not a friend--too late to make friends now.

She could see nothing in front of her at all.

The crisis did come, but not as she expected it.

There arrived a morning when the dark mist outside and badly made
porridge inside tempted the children to their very worst. Miss Jones
had had a wakeful night struggling with neuralgia and her own
hesitating spirit. The children had lost even their customary half-