The admiring envy with which she watched Hilary, moving briskly about from class to class, with a word of praise to one and rebuke to another, keeping every one's attention alive, spurring on the dull, controlling the unruly, and exercising over every member in this little world that influence, at once the strongest and most intangible and inexplicable--personal influence--was only equaled by the way in which, at pauses in the day's work, when it grew dull and monotonous or when the stupidity of the children ruffled her own quick temper beyond endurance, Hilary watched Johanna.
The time I am telling of now is long ago.
The Stowbury children, who were then little boys and girls, are now fathers and mothers--doubtless a large proportion being decent tradesfolk in Stowbury still; though, in this locomotive quarter, many must have drifted elsewhere--where, Heaven knows.

But not a few of them may still call to mind Miss Leaf, who first taught them their letters--sitting in her corner between the fire and the window, while the blind was drawn down to keep out, first the light from her own fading eyes, and, secondly, the distracting view of green fields and trees from the youthful eyes by her side.

They may remember still her dark plain dress and her white apron, on which the primers, torn and dirty, looked half ashamed to lie; and above all, her sweet face and sweeter voice, never heard in any thing sharper than that grieved tone which signified their being "naughty children." They may recall her unwearied patience with the very dullest and most wayward of them; her unfailing sympathy with every infantile pleasure and pain.
And I think they will acknowledge that whether she taught them much or little--in this advancing age it might be thought little--Miss Leaf taught them one thing--to love her.

Which, as Ben Johnson said of the Countess of Pembroke, was in itself a "liberal education." Hilary, too.

Often when Hilary's younger and more restless spirit chafed against the monotony of her life; when, instead of wasting her days in teaching small children, she would have liked to be learning, learning--every day growing wiser and cleverer, and stretching out into that busy, bright, active world of which Robert Lyon had told her--then the sight of Johanna's meek face bent over those dirty spelling books would at once rebuke and comfort her.