This is a very unpleasant game for a lady with neuralgia. Or there is the game of Making a Noise. At this game, without any earlier training or practice, Jeremy was a perfect master. The three children would be sitting there very, very quiet, learning the first verse of “Tiger, Tiger, burning bright--” A very gentle creaking sound would break the stillness--a creaking sound that can be made, if you are clever, by rubbing a boot against a boot. It would not come regularly, but once, twice, thrice, a pause, and then once, twice and another pause. “Who's making a noise?” Dead silence. A very long pause, and then it would begin again. “That noise must cease, I say. Jeremy, what are you doing?” He would lift to her then eyes full of meekness and love. “Nothing, Miss Jones.” Soon it would begin again. Miss Jones would be silent this time, and then Mary would speak. “Please, would you ask Jeremy not to rub his boots together? I can't learn my verse--” “I didn't know I was,” says Jeremy. Then it would begin again. Jeremy would say: “Please, may I take my boots off?” “Take your boots off? Why?” “They will rub together, and I can't stop them, because I don't know when I do it, and it is hard for Mary--” “Of course not! I never heard of such a thing! Next time you do it you must stand on your chair.” Soon Jeremy is standing on his chair. Soon his poetry book drops with a terrible crash to the ground, and five million pins stab Miss Jones's heart. With white face and trembling hands, she says: “Go and stand in the corner, Jeremy! I shall have to speak to your mother!” He goes, grinning at Mary, and stands there knowing that his victim is watching the door in an agony lest Mrs. Cole should suddenly come in and inquire what Jeremy had done, and that so the whole story of his insubordination be revealed and Miss Jones lose her situation for incapacity. How did he discover this final weakness of Miss Jones? No one told him; but he knew, and, as the days passed, rejoiced in his power and his might and his glory. Then came the climax. The children were not perfectly sure whether, after all, Miss Jones might not tell their mother. They did not wish this to happen, and so long as this calamity was possible they were not complete masters of the poor lady. Then came a morning when they had been extremely naughty, when every game had been played and every triumph scored. Miss Jones, almost in tears, had threatened four times that the Powers Above should be informed. Suddenly Mrs. Cole entered. “Well, Miss Jones, how have the children been this morning? If they've been good I have a little treat to propose.” The children waited, their eyes upon their governess. Her eyes stared back upon her tormentors. Her hands worked together. She struggled. Why not call in Mrs. Cole's authority to her aid? No; she knew what it would mean--“I'm very sorry, Miss Jones, but I think a younger governess, perhaps--” Her throat moved.