"Why don't you keep a school， Mr. Knight？ There's lots of room for it in the Abbey."
"A school！" he said. "A school！ I never thought of that. No， it is ridiculous. Still， pupils perhaps. Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings， &c. Well， it is time for me to be going. I will think the matter over after church."
Mr. Knight did think the matter over and after consultation with his housekeeper， Mrs. Parsons， an advertisement appeared in /The Times/@@and /The Spectator/ inviting parents and guardians to entrust two or three lads to the advertiser's care to receive preliminary education， together with his own son. It proved fruitful， and after an exchange of the "highest references，" two little boys appeared at Monk's Acre， both of them rather delicate in health. This was shortly before the crisis arose as to the future teaching of Isobel， when the last governess， wishing her "a better spirit，" had bidden her a frigid farewell and shaken the dust of Hawk's Hall off her feet.
One day Isobel was sent with a note to the Abbey House. She rang the bell but no one came， for Mr. Knight was out walking with his pupils and Mrs. Parsons and the parlour-maid were elsewhere. Tired of waiting， she wandered round the grey old building in the hope of finding someone to whom she could deliver the letter， and came to the refectory which had a separate entrance. The door was open and she peeped in. At first， after the brilliant sunlight without， she saw nothing except the great emptiness of the place with its splendid oak roof on the repair of which the late incumbent had spent so much， since as is common in monkish buildings， the windows were high and narrow. Presently， however， she perceived a little figure seated in the shadow at the end of the long oaken refectory table， that at which the monks had eaten， which still remained where it had stood for hundreds of years， one of the fixtures of the house， and knew it for that of Godfrey， Mr. Knight's son. Gliding towards him quietly she saw that he was asleep and stopped to study him.
He was a beautiful boy， pale just now for he had recovered but recently from some childish illness. His hair was dark and curling， dark， too， were his eyes， though these she could not see， and the lashes over them， while his hands were long and fine. He looked most lonely and pathetic， there in the big oak chair that had so often accommodated the portly forms of departed abbots， and her warm heart went out towards him. Of course Isobel knew him， but not very well， for he was a shy lad and her father had never encouraged intimacy between the Abbey House and the Hall.
Somehow she had the idea that he was unhappy， for indeed he looked so even in his sleep， though perhaps this was to be accounted for by a paper of unfinished sums before him. Sympathy welled up in Isobel， who remembered the oppressions of the last governess--her of the inkpot.
Sympathy， yes， and more than sympathy， for of a sudden she felt as she had never felt before. She loved the little lad as though he were her brother. A strange affinity for him came home to her， although she did not define it thus； it was as if she knew that her spirit was intimate with his， yes， and always had been and always would be intimate.
This subtle knowledge went through Isobel like fire and shook her. She turned pale， her nostrils expanded， her large eyes opened and she sighed. She did more indeed. Drawn by some over-mastering impulse she drew near to Godfrey and kissed him gently on the forehead， then glided back again frightened and ashamed at her own act.
Now he woke up； she felt his dark eyes looking at her. Then he spoke in a slow， puzzled voice， saying：
"I have had such a funny dream. I dreamed that a spirit came and kissed me. I did not see it， but I think it must have been my mother's."
"Why？" asked Isobel.
"Because no one else ever cared enough for me to kiss me， except Mrs.
Parsons， and she has given it up now that the other boys are here."
"Does not your father kiss you？" she asked.
"Yes， once a week， on Sunday evening when I go to bed. Because I don't count that."
"No， I understand，" said Isobel， thinking of her own father， then added hastily， "it must be sad not to have a mother."
"It is，" he answered， "especially when one is ill as I have been， and must lie so long in bed with pains in the head. You know I had an abscess in the ear and it hurt very much."
"I didn't know. We heard you were ill and mother wanted to come to see you. Father wouldn't let her. He thought it might be measles and he is afraid of catching things."
"Yes，" replied Godfrey without surprise. "It wasn't measles， but if it had been you might have caught them， so of course he was right to be careful."
"Oh！ he wasn't thinking of me or Mummy， he was thinking of himself，"@@blurted out Isobel with the candour of youth.
"Big， strong men don't catch measles，" said Godfrey in mild astonishment.
"He says they do， and that they are very dangerous when you are grown up. Why are you alone here， and what are you working at？"
"My father has kept me in as a punishment because I did my sums wrong.
The other boys have gone out bird-nesting， but I have to stop here until I get them right. I don't know when that will be，" he added with a sigh， "as I hate rule of three and can't do it."
"Rule of three，" said Isobel， "I'm quite good at it. You see I like figures. My father says it is the family business instinct. Here， let me try. Move to the other side of that big chair， there's plenty of room for two， and show it to me."
He obeyed with alacrity and soon the brown head and the fair one were bent together over the scrawled sheet. Isobel， who had really a budding talent for mathematics， worked out the sum， or rather the sums， without difficulty and then， with guile acquired under the governess régime， made him copy them and destroyed all traces of her own handiwork.
"Are you as stupid at everything as you are at sums？" she asked when he had finished， rising from the chair and seating herself on the edge of the table.
