Clara passed on, after a few pleasant words, and sat down in a quiet nook to finish her book. It was the _Jaques_ of George Sand; and as she read on she was deeply moved by the masterly rendering of the hopeless passion of the hero, and especially by his heroic sacrifice to his wife. Being thoroughly absorbed by her reflections and emotions, she did not hear the light step of Miss Marston, her favorite teacher, who came and sat down beside her. “My dear, what have you been reading?” she asked. Clara handed her the book frankly, knowing well it would not be approved, for George Sand was one of the tabooed authors in Stonybrook. “I am grieved to find you reading such books, Miss Forest,” said the teacher, looking very gravely at the pupil. Miss Marston’s home was in a town near Oakdale, and she had known Dr. Forest by reputation quite well. She knew of his omnivorous literary tastes, and was wondering if his daughter had not possibly inherited them. Clara answered, looking straight in Miss Marston’s clear brown eyes, “I am sorry you are grieved—very sorry; but I cannot see why such a book as this should be classed with those unfit to be read.” And she blushed deeply, as girls will from a thousand different emotions. “See how you blush while you say it,” said Miss Marston, in a tone of real severity. “I blush at everything,” replied Clara, angry at the weakness; “but I would not say what I do not think—most certainly I would not to you.” “Where did you obtain this book?” “One of the students lent it to me.” “Which one?” “I must not say, because she asked me to not tell, and I promised. I wish I had not, for I do not like to confess this promise to you.” Clara was sorely troubled. She knew this teacher had a real affection for her, as, indeed, all her teachers had, for she was frank and straightforward always, never shirked any task, and was the life of all recitations in which she took part. She asked questions and explanations innumerable, and would never quit studying any difficult point until she had thoroughly mastered it. Such pupils are ever the delight and the support of the faithful teacher; and no matter whether personally sympathetic, or charming in other ways, they are sure to be honored and treated with great consideration by any teacher worthy of the name. There is no surer test of a teacher’s utter incapacity than that his favorites are the pretty, wheedling shirks of the classroom. Miss Marston was silent for a little time after Clara’s expression of regret, and then she said kindly, “That is well said, Clara. Of course, you must keep your promise; but do you not see that you were wrong to borrow a book which your fellow-student was ashamed to have known she possessed?” “I cannot say she was ashamed of having this book. I feel certain that if she had read it as carefully as I have, she would not have made the request. _I_ could never be ashamed to own such a book as this.”