“Well, you know, Mother, not really bad.” Both the twins laughed. “We do really mean to try to keep things tidy. We’re going round a bit at night, putting everything away before we go to bed—things that don’t seem to matter a bit at night do look so horribly untidy in the morning. And we’re going to plan the work so as to get method. Smithy—Miss Smith, I mean—used always to preach about that. Do you think it takes long to grow method?”
“A lifetime isn’t enough for some people,” Mrs. Weston said. “But if you really try I think yours will soon develop. There are already signs of healthy sprouting!” She smiled at them—the smile a little tremulous. They were so young, and so tremendously in earnest.
“That’s comforting,” Jean said. “Now there’s another important thing. Do you think it’s our duty to teach the boys together? Us together, I mean—not the boys, of course.”
“A class of two isn’t exactly huge,” said their father. “It would be rather over-engined with two teachers, I think.”
“That’s what we thought,” Jean cried eagerly. “It would be silly—we’d be falling over each other. So we mapped out a programme, each of us taking an hour and a half at a time, and we’ll each give the lessons we’re best at ourselves. English isn’t mine, you’ll notice! Then the one who isn’t teaching can be free for other jobs.”
“Here’s the programme,” Jo said. She displayed it triumphantly—a lengthy document, with spaces beautifully ruled in red ink, mapping out a week’s work. Mr. and Mrs. Weston studied it together.
“ ‘Drill—15 minutes’?” queried Mr. Weston presently.
“Oh, that’s physical jerks—you know, calisthenics,” Jo explained. “We’ll begin with that every morning. They were very keen about it at school. Miss Dampier says it gets all the brain-machinery going well.”
“Good idea,” said their father, relapsing into silence.
“Isn’t there a good deal of time for ‘Reading’?” asked Mrs. Weston. “They’re very small for such long lessons.”