"He had better read less, and try a little general oral instruction. Perhaps they don't remember because they can't understand;"--and the Rector coming in at that moment, the business of the evening commenced. Having afterwards to cross the school for something, Bill passed the new teacher and his class, and came to the conclusion that they did "get on together," and very well too. The rag-tag and bob-tail shone that night, and afterwards were loud in praises of the lesson. "It was so clear" and "He was so patient." Indeed, patience was one great secret of Mr. Lindsay's teaching; he waited so long for an answer that he generally got it. His pupils were obliged to exert themselves when there was no hope of being passed over, and everybody was waiting. Finally, Bill's share of the arithmetic lesson converted him to Master Arthur's friend. He _was_ a clever young gentleman, and a kind one too. The lesson had been so interesting--the clever young gentleman, standing (without his eye-glass) by the blackboard, had been so strict and yet so entertaining, was so obviously competent, and so pleasantly kind, that Bill, who liked arithmetic, and (like all intelligent children) appreciated good teaching, had had no time to think of the Yew-lane Ghost till the lesson was ended. It was not till the hymn began (they always ended the night-school with singing,) that he remembered it. Then, while he was shouting with all his might Bishop Ken's glorious old lines-- "Keep me, O keep me, King of kings," he caught Mr. Lindsay's eyes fixed on him, and back came the thoughts of his terrible fright, with a little shame too at his own timidity. Which of us trusts as we should do in the "defence of the Most High"? Bill lingered as he had done the last time, and went out with the "grown-ups." It had been raining, and the ground was wet and sludgy, though it was fair overhead. The wind was cold too, and Mr. Lindsay began to cough so violently, that Bill felt rather ashamed of taking him so far out of his way, through the damp, chilly lane, and began to wonder whether he could not summon up courage to go alone. The result was, that with some effort he said-- "Please, Mr. Lindsay, sir, I think you won't like to come so far this cold night. I'll try and manage, if you like." Mr. Lindsay laid one hand on Bill's shoulder, and said quietly-- "No, thank you, my boy, we'll come with you. Thank you, all the same." "Nevertheless, Bartram," said Master Arthur, "I wish you could keep that cough of yours quiet--it will spoil everything. A boy was eating peppermints in the shade of his copybook this very night. I did box his ears; but I wish I had seized the goodies, they might have kept you quiet." "Thank you," was the reply, "I abhor peppermint; but I have got some lozenges, if that will satisfy you. And when I smell ghosts, I can smother myself in my pocket-handkerchief." Master Arthur laughed boisterously.