After all the boys had done their tasks after their own private fashion, the master read to them a fable, which the boy recognized gratefully as an old friend out of the ancient authors; also a wonderful tale from similar sources, and a few passages from the life of a great national hero. The boy was enchanted. The simplicity of the reading made him strangely happy; the themes addressed him with a ravishment he had never felt before. And the horde of fierce creatures all about him, indulging in grimaces and covert horseplay, seemed also to become amenable to this delight. At least their uneasy roughness grew less as the beautiful voice proceeded; and by the time these stories of wonder, wisdom and endeavour were at an end, even the rudest among them had wide eyes and open mouths. Upon the conclusion of these tales the old school-master wrote a few cabalistic figures on a board, and then said to the boy, “Can you do sums?” “I--I--I--I d-don’t t-think I--I k-know, sir,” said the boy, stammering timorously. “Perhaps we will test your knowledge,” said the old man, and added as he smiled in a secret and beautiful manner, “there is one simple question in arithmetic that it is the custom to put to a new scholar on his first appearance among us. Can you tell us what two and two make?” Now, although the boy was advanced in book-knowledge far beyond his years, he had hardly the rudiments of the practical sciences. Therefore at first he was unable to answer the most primitive of all questions therein, and his confusion was great. And the other boys who had heard this question, which was so simple as to seem ridiculous, observed his distress with a scorn that was far too lofty to conceal. “What would you say that two and two make?” the school-master asked. “I--I--I think, sir, they m-make five,” stammered the boy at last. A shout of laughter arose from the other boys at this grotesque answer. “He thinks two and two make five!” boy after boy could be heard repeating to his companions; “he thinks two and two make five!” The aged school-master, however, derived neither amusement nor scorn from this answer. His look was one of high yet grave happiness as he said, “We give a special name to each of our boys, and I have been wondering what name to bestow upon you. The name of your father was Isocrates--one of great gifts, but timorous of disposition; but I think you must be known by the name of a universal hero. We will call you by the name of Achilles, who was the bravest among all the Greeks.” At these words of the master looks of consternation clouded the faces of all the boys. “Why, sir, he is a dunce,” expostulated a thoughtful and shrewd boy with piercing black eyes. The aged master looked at this boy with a mild indulgence in his smile. “Adamantus,” said the master, “that is a condition necessary to a universal hero in his youth.”