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 without a break from father to son, and who used the very words of Plato every day, did not know how to pronounce it. With what delight I should have boxed her ears, only I had to remember that I was no longer I, but a teacher, exchanging lessons for my living.

After several lessons together she went to the principal and told her that I was quite unfitted to teach her, and that she was only wasting her time.

The principal and I had a conference. "I can't teach her," I admitted, "unless I learn to pronounce my own language in the execrable way she does."

So far then as the school was concerned I had failed. I was a Greek—but could not teach Greek! The thought of leaving the school hurt me, because I had become very fond of the principal, who even used to come to my room sometimes and kiss me good night.

She offered me an alternative. "Wouldn't you like to teach the little girls French, talk French with the boarders, take them to church and out for their walks?"

I was delighted to accept this proposal. Not being permitted to speak any English with the pupils materially impeded my own progress; but there was a girl in the school who lived there without being a pupil, and who, although she spoke French fluently, often talked English with