She had her eye on every one of us the whole time, nay, more than ever; and many a bad mark was sprinkled up with her readings.
"Once more, dearly beloved--Batchelor, a bad mark," became to me quite a familiar sound before I had been many Sundays at Stonebridge House.
This particular Sunday evening I thought I should go mad, at least, during the first part of the performance.

I _couldn't_ sit still, and the more I tried the more restless I became.

At last, however, some chance directed my eyes to where the new boy was sitting in a distant corner of the room, and from that moment, I can't tell why, I became a model of quiet sitting.

I found myself forgetting all about the cobwebs, and Mrs Hudson, and the china ornament, and the small of my back, and thinking of nothing but this solemn, queer boy, with his big eyes, and black hair, and troubled face.

The more I looked at him the more sorry I felt for him, and the more I wished to be his friend.