Morgan pulled a Greek lexicon toward him—he used a Greek-German—to look out a word, instead of asking it of Pemberton. “You can’t go on like this, you know.” “Like what, my boy?” “You know they don’t pay you up,” said Morgan, blushing and turning his leaves. “Don’t pay me?” Pemberton stared again and feigned amazement. “What on earth put that into your head?” “It has been there a long time,” the boy replied rummaging his book. Pemberton was silent, then he went on: “I say, what are you hunting for? They pay me beautifully.” “I’m hunting for the Greek for awful whopper,” Morgan dropped. “Find that rather for gross impertinence and disabuse your mind. What do I want of money?” “Oh that’s another question!” Pemberton wavered—he was drawn in different ways. The severely correct thing would have been to tell the boy that such a matter was none of his business and bid him go on with his lines. But they were really too intimate for that; it was not the way he was in the habit of treating him; there had been no reason it should be. On the other hand Morgan had quite lighted on the truth—he really shouldn’t be able to keep it up much longer; therefore why not let him know one’s real motive for forsaking him? At the same time it wasn’t decent to abuse to one’s pupil the family of one’s pupil; it was better to misrepresent than to do that. So in reply to his comrade’s last exclamation he just declared, to dismiss the subject, that he had received several payments. “I say—I say!” the boy ejaculated, laughing. “That’s all right,” Pemberton insisted. “Give me your written rendering.” Morgan pushed a copybook across the table, and he began to read the page, but with something running in his head that made it no sense. Looking up after a minute or two he found the child’s eyes fixed on him and felt in them something strange. Then Morgan said: “I’m not afraid of the stern reality.” “I haven’t yet seen the thing you _are_ afraid of—I’ll do you that justice!” This came out with a jump—it was perfectly true—and evidently gave Morgan pleasure. “I’ve thought of it a long time,” he presently resumed. “Well, don’t think of it any more.” The boy appeared to comply, and they had a comfortable and even an amusing hour. They had a theory that they were very thorough, and yet they seemed always to be in the amusing part of lessons, the intervals between the dull dark tunnels, where there were waysides and jolly views. Yet the morning was brought to a violent as end by Morgan’s suddenly leaning his arms on the table, burying his head in them and bursting into tears: at which Pemberton was the more startled that, as it then came over him, it was the first time he had ever seen the boy cry and that the impression was consequently quite awful.