“By fixing these things in your heart, and not on paper,” Helen said, and she left the room.
“Well, that’s the way to learn them by heart,” said the boy to himself thoughtfully, as with brow knit he seated himself by a table, took a sheet of paper, and began diligently to write in a fairly neat hand, making entry after entry; and the principal of these was—
“Bob Dimsted: not to talk to him.”
The next day the doctor had a chat with Mr Limpney respecting Dexter and his progress.
“You see,” said the doctor, “the boy has not had the advantages lads have at good schools; and he feels these lessons to be extremely difficult. Give him time.”
“Oh, certainly, Doctor Grayson,” said Mr Limpney. “I have only one wish, and that is to bring the boy on. He is behind to a terrible extent.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said the doctor; “but make it as easy for him as you can—for the present, you know. After a time he will be stronger in the brain.”
Mr Limpney, BA, looked very stern. He was naturally a good-hearted, gentlemanly, and scholarly man. He thoroughly understood the subjects he professed to teach. In fact, the ordinary routine of classic and mathematical study had, by long practice, grown so simple to him, that he was accustomed to look with astonishment upon a boy who stumbled over some of the learned blocks.
In addition, year upon year of imparting knowledge to reckless and ill-tempered as well as stupid boys had soured him, and, in consequence, the well-intentioned words of the doctor did not fall on ground ready to receive them quite as it should.
“Complaining about my way of teaching, I suppose,” he said to himself. “Well, we shall see.”