She was shrewd enough not to let the class see that she was afraid; and being only boys, they saw merely what was apparent—­that they had the prettiest teacher in the room.  Her beauty and refinement impressed them vaguely, yet powerfully; the incipient man within them yielded its involuntary homage, and she appealed to their masculine traits as only a woman of tact can, making them feel that it would be not only wrong but ungallant and unmannerly to take advantage of her.  They all speedily succumbed except one, whose rude home associations and incorrigible disposition rendered futile her appeals.  After two or three Sabbaths the other boys became so incensed that he should disgrace the class that after school they lured him into an alleyway and were administering a well-deserved castigation, when Mildred, who was passing, rescued him.  His fear induced him to yield to her invitation to accompany her home; and her kindness, to which he knew he was not entitled, combined with the wholesome effect of the pummelling received from the boys, led him to unite in making the class—­once known as “the Incorrigibles”—­the best behaved in the school.

Everything apparently now promised well for the Jocelyns.  Their mistaken policy of seclusion and shrinking from contact with the world during their impoverishment had given way to kindly Christian influences, and they were forming the best associations their lot permitted.  All might have gone to their ultimate advantage had it not been for the hidden element of weakness so well known to the reader, but as yet unsuspected by the family.

If Mr. Jocelyn had been able to put forth the efforts of a sound and rational man, he could, with the aid of his daughters, even in those times of depression, have passed safely through the trials of sudden poverty, and eventually—­having learned wisdom from the past experience—­he could have regained a better and more stable financial position than the one lost.  Thus far he had been able to maintain considerable self-control, and by daily experience knew just about how much morphia he could take without betraying himself.  His family had become accustomed to its effects, and ascribed them to the peculiar state of his health.  Loving eyes are often the most blind, and that which is seen daily ceases to seem strange.  Beyond their natural solicitude over his failing appetite, his unwholesome complexion, and his loss of flesh, they had no misgivings.  His decline was so very gradual that there was nothing to startle them.  Every day they hoped to see a change for the better, and sought to bring it about by preparing such dainty dishes as were within their means to catch his capricious appetite, and by keeping all their little perplexities and worriments to themselves, so that he might have unbroken rest when free from business.  He recognized their unselfish and considerate devotion, and it added to the horrible depression into which he sank more and more deeply the moment