It was tantalising to a degree, for, strive hard as he would, these things seemed to dance before Luke Ross's eyes; while as to the questions themselves, as he read them through and through, not one did it seem that he could answer. And so it was morning after morning during the few busy days that the examination lasted. Every night he went to bed almost in despair; every morning he gazed blankly at the various questions. But, in spite of his self-depreciation, first one and then another of the masters, who gathered up the papers at each sitting's end, gave him a friendly nod of approval, and glanced with interest at the closely-written sheets. "I've made a dismal failure, sir," he exclaimed at last, as night closed in upon his fifth day's work. The assistant master in whose hands lay the everyday subjects taught at the institution laughed as he clapped the young man upon the shoulder. "I wish every man in the college had made as great a failure, Ross," he said. "There, there, you are weary and nervous. Get out of doors and have a good blow and as much exercise as you can till you have regained your tone. I ought not to say so, perhaps, but, Ross, you might, if you liked, look higher than a schoolmaster's life; that is, if you have any ambition in your soul." At that moment Luke Ross's highest ambition was to win Sage Portlock's regard, and to acquit himself so creditably as the new master of Lawford School, that there might be no room for that modern Shimei, Humphrey Bone, to say hard words against his management and power of training the young. Later on circumstances caused him to undergo a complete revolution of thought. PART ONE, CHAPTER TWELVE. A QUESTION OF INCOME. They were busy times at Kilby, the farm occupied by the Portlocks, and Sage was laughing and merry in her holiday enjoyment of domestic duties. A few friends were expected next night, and busy preparations were being made by Mrs Portlock and her niece, whose pleasant-looking, plump, white arms were bloomed to the elbow with flour, to which was soon to be added the golden-looking yolks of a dozen eggs, being beaten up in a large white basin in the most unmerciful way by Mrs Portlock herself. It was a comfortable-looking country kitchen where they were busy, in thorough, old-fashioned style. Not from necessity, for from the back kitchen and room beyond came the sound of voices where the two maids were engaged over other household duties. In the low, wide window, in spite of the season, were some brightly blooming geraniums, between which could be seen the home close, dotted with sheep, and through which field meandered the path leading down to the town. "Don't forget the salt, Sage," said Mrs Portlock, "and put in a dash of carb'nate. For goodness' sake let's have the cake light, and--why, what ails the girl now?"