bury themselves in their soft little throats. This impression grew suddenly so sharp that I had to shake myself and sit back in my seat to get rid of it. Then once more she was only Miss McWaters, to whom years ago I had repeated this same verse of poetry in that same shrill sing-song tone which now was going through and through my head. . . . .
I looked about the room with heavy eyes—at the white walls, the torn, ink-stained maps, the scored desks and forms, the wooden floor—and the whole place seemed to move round and round like a wheel. I saw my father, with a pointer in his hand, indicating differently shaped areas on a large blank map of England, and asking a row of youngsters what counties they represented. That was the kind of lesson I had always detested myself and had never even attempted to learn. I knew from my father's angry, "Next—next—next," that nobody in the class was giving satisfaction. And then they all seemed to shrink and float back, while the room shot out like a telescope, and I watched them from somewhere miles and miles away. And the high, clear voice of Miss McWaters proclaimed:
"Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky."
And a dozen shrill voices replied:
"Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky."
The words seemed mere nonsense in my ears, and I had a sort of delirious vision of a big star, with a red nose and a fringe and large white teeth, pointing out the time on a huge clock, while a lot of little stars stood round in a ring and pulled watches out of their waistcoat pockets and set them to the time told by the big clock. This seemed funny to me, and I began to laugh; and then, next moment, I wanted to lie down somewhere and be quiet. My head was throbbing like a steamboat with a too powerful engine, and there was a dull aching at the back of my eyeballs. I got up and
