I remember one afternoon in spring, when, owing to the rain, they could not go out; but, by some amazing good fortune, they had all finished their lessons, and yet abstained from running down to tease their parents—a trick that annoyed me greatly, but which, on rainy days, I seldom could prevent their doing; because, below, they found novelty and amusement—especially when visitors were in the house; and their mother, though she bid me keep them in the schoolroom, would never chide them for leaving it, or trouble herself to send them back. But this day they appeared satisfied with their present abode, and what is more wonderful still, seemed disposed to play together without depending on me for amusement, and without quarrelling with each other. Their occupation was a somewhat puzzling one: they were all squatted together on the floor by the window, over a heap of broken toys and a quantity of birds’ eggs—or rather egg-shells, for the contents had luckily been abstracted. These shells they had broken up and were pounding into small fragments, to what end I could not imagine; but so long as they were quiet and not in positive mischief, I did not care; and, with a feeling of unusual repose, I sat by the fire, putting the finishing stitches to a frock for Mary Ann’s doll; intending, when that was done, to begin a letter to my mother. Suddenly the door opened, and the dingy head of Mr. Bloomfield looked in. “All very quiet here! What are you doing?” said he. “No harm _to-day_, at least,” thought I. But he was of a different opinion. Advancing to the window, and seeing the children’s occupations, he testily exclaimed—“What in the world are you about?” “We’re grinding egg-shells, papa!” cried Tom. “How _dare_ you make such a mess, you little devils? Don’t you see what confounded work you’re making of the carpet?” (the carpet was a plain brown drugget). “Miss Grey, did you know what they were doing?” “Yes, sir.” “You knew it?” “Yes.” “You knew it! and you actually sat there and permitted them to go on without a word of reproof!” “I didn’t think they were doing any harm.” “Any harm! Why, look there! Just look at that carpet, and see—was there ever anything like it in a Christian house before? No wonder your room is not fit for a pigsty—no wonder your pupils are worse than a litter of pigs!—no wonder—oh! I declare, it puts me quite past my patience” and he departed, shutting the door after him with a bang that made the children laugh. “It puts me quite past my patience too!” muttered I, getting up; and, seizing the poker, I dashed it repeatedly into the cinders, and stirred them up with unwonted energy; thus easing my irritation under pretence of mending the fire.