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“Perhaps so, my boy,” Mr. Trevar agreed. “But I’m studying your case. No English, horrid temper, young wild animal, in fact. It’s hard on the girl,” he admitted to his own conscience; “but I guess it’s a case for Room 18,” and rang the bell again and sent word to Room 18 to summon Miss Bailey to his office.

“We’ve caught a tartar,” he told her, “almost literally a Tartar. He seems to have strong racial prejudices, and I shall have to assign him to you until he learns a little English.”

“But if he speaks no English at all,” Miss Bailey remonstrated–for children of this kind were her greatest trial, and she was already laboring with three of them–“would he not be happier with one of the teachers who could understand him?”

“Ah! but they wouldn’t,” he replied; “that’s just the point. Miss Rosen tells me he’s a Russian and not a Jew. He said something extremely rude to her just now. No, you’ll have to take him, at least for a few days, until I can make some inquiries about him. We shall have to get the Truant Officer to give us the child’s name and address. Will you take him with you now?”

Constance Bailey had a smile to which many a lonely frightened little novice had yielded a shy and sweet response, but there was no answering smile here. She stretched out a hand to take the boy’s, but he eluded her, reached the door, opened it, and stood at stiff attention until she had preceded him into the hall.

“Well, I’ll be blamed!” reflected the Principal. “Manners, and princely ones at that!”

On the way to Room 18, Miss Bailey’s newest responsibility walked beside her with a free and upright carriage strangely at variance with the shoes he walked in. Once or twice she spoke to him, and his answer was an uncomprehending but courteous inclination of the little head. Once he spoke to her. It was when they passed the platform in the Assembly Room. He pointed to the piano and said something eagerly, authoritatively, in that language whose like Miss Bailey had never heard. She nodded and smiled at him, and they fared on together.

Again, at the door of Room 18, he punctiliously allowed her to precede him. But as he entered after her and met the full regard of Room 18’s dark eyes, he stopped and returned the glances bent upon him with a cool, insulting indifference.

“This is a new little boy,” announced Miss Bailey, “to whom I want you all to be very kind. He doesn’t speak much English, but we shall teach him that. Morris, he will sit near you.”

Morris Mowgelewsky, all timid friendliness, approached the stranger. Here surely was a queer new little boy in a “from man’s” coat, and an exceeding dirty face; yet if Miss Bailey hailed him as a new little friend, then as a new little friend he must be made welcome.

“Talk to him a moment, Morris,” Teacher commanded. “See if he won’t tell you what his name is.”

Morris obeyed, and the child answered him in the words that had so upset Miss Rosen. But Morris had left Russia when he was only two years old, and the phrase held no meaning for him, though the tone made him pause.

“I don’t know how he says,” Morris reported to Miss Bailey. “I says out of Jewish, ‘What is your name, little boy?’ und I don’t know what he says. On’y it ain’t names, und it ain’t lovin’.”

“Very well, dear, you may go back to your place. I’ll keep him here beside me for a while,” answered Teacher, more than ever at a loss, for the winningness of Morris had never failed to charm a stranger.

At the recess hour, when all the other children filed down into the yard, Teacher sent Patrick Brennan with a little note to Mr. Eissler, the teacher of the biggest boys, those nearly ready for graduation. He was an elderly man wearing well in the service to which the noblest of his race have always devoted themselves. He and Miss Bailey were great friends, and much of the understanding of this alien race–its habits, its emotions, and its innate refinement–the understanding which made her reign in Room 18 so peaceful and beneficent, she had acquired from him, and from the books he lent her.