rolled through by degrees in sight of the church; but there was a greater throng at that end, in and about the low-walled enclosure before a smart new building, the use of which was not plain at first sight; for considering the size of the place, with the general squalidness of the long cottages or bald white houses, really the number of people of all ages was extraordinary, till one observed that single roofs seemed shared among ever so many families,—a thing the odder to the lad, as at school he used to know plenty of Eton folks, from bargemen to bat-maker. He even thought, somehow, of that one visit to Stoke. Oh! that was the school—the first he happened to have seen in France; and that youngish man, in an old figured dressing-gown, with a sharp dry face, standing up on something, without a hat—the schoolmaster; while they pushed and jumped to hear him, though quietly enough except for the hushing of each other, since the schoolmaster had evidently a weak voice; it only reached the carriage in an occasional screech, when he lifted his hand impressively in the air. “_Ecoutez—ecoutez, au Père Pierre!_” This Père Pierre must be rather an odd fellow; why, his school was in a perfect riot within, to judge by the dust, the flying books, and the noise sometimes louder than his voice outside. But he was not making a speech—the white article he held up to the blaze of the sun was not a pocket-handkerchief, but—yes—a newspaper. He must have a good deal of influence there, this teacher—at least over the grown-up men, with leather aprons and bare arms—one could not help marking him—with that scanty head of hair done up in bobs from his temples, and such a short queue behind, not to think of his short nose and high cheekbones, or a chin as bare as one’s palm. Perhaps something had happened—something important—a battle somewhere? There was peace, though. Some murder, it was likely—or a shipwreck—well, at any rate these boys didn’t mind, so crop-headed and stunted-looking, who were playing pitch-and-toss with such an old-mannish look in their eager faces, at the end of the school. There were more beneath the big bulging church-gable, with its black ugly windows and its zigzag crack in the plaster—in such long old livery coats, with plated saucer-buttons. Actually it was with the buttons they were playing—as if it had been money—cutting them off their coats, too, and their breeches, to rush back for another chance! The silent speculations of Charles reached their climax in profound wonder. It was beneath his notice to regard Mrs Mason’s words, as they cleared the place, and began to rise from the hollow—that it was an interesting village, so lively, so full of a holiday air, not without a degree of quick intelligence. “After labour,” his mother said, lifting up her eyelids, “it must be pleasant.”