He had tried Hannibal once more; but his pupils cared less for Hannibal than for the bumble-bees droning in the window-frame.

For some reason the dull routine of lessons had been duller than usual.

The scholars had never been so stupid.

Again and again the face that he had seen rest on his arm the day before came between him and his page, and when the eyes opened they were as blue as forget-me-nots.

He would rouse himself with a start and plunge back bravely into the mysteries of physical geography or of compound fractions, only to find himself, at the first quiet moment, picking his way through the pines with that white face resting against his shoulder.
When school was out he declined the invitation of the boys to walk with them, and settled himself in his chair as though he meant to prepare the lessons for the next day.