Page:Labour and childhood.djvu/119

 no light in the windows; all is peaceful. The snow is on the stairs; there is a faint murmur, a slight movement behind the door, a boy runs upstairs two steps at a time, and enters the class room. It is almost dark behind the frosty panes. &hellip;

"It seems as if all were dead; nothing moves. Are they not asleep? You advance in the shadow, and examine the face of one of the smaller boys. He is sitting, devouring the teacher with his eyes, and his intense attention makes him frown. You tickle his neck, he does not even smile, he shakes his head as if to drive away a fly. He is entirely absorbed in the mysterious story of how the veil of the temple was rent in twain, and the sky was darkened. It is at once painful and sweet to them."

The class is seeing pictures. The little boy who has never been far from his own village sees the rent curtain. He sees the sky that darkens with wrath, not with rain.

It is the teacher who has opened his eyes—has flung wide this new door through which so much is visible. He devours this teacher with his eyes, and does not see him. But he will see the vision a thousand times. It is his for ever.

To take an English example now.

Miss Whelan, a teacher near Worthing, is founding