"Everybody," agreed the master.
"But wouldn't it be better if everybody liked their work—couldn't they do it better if they did?" he asked. "That's what I'm vexed about, partly. I don't like lessons, sir," he said in a tone of deep conviction. "I'm afraid I'm too stupid ever to like them."
The schoolmaster could scarcely keep from smiling.
"You're not so very old yet, Gratian," he said. "It's just possible you may change. Besides, in some ways the beginning's the worst. You can't read very easily yet—not well enough to enjoy reading to yourself?"
"No, sir," said the boy, hanging his head again.
"Well, then, wait a while and see if you don't change about books and lessons."
"And if I don't ever change," said Gratian earnestly. "Can people ever do things well that they don't like doing?"
The schoolmaster looked at him. It was a curious question for a boy of nine years old.
"Yes," he said, "I hope so, indeed," and his mind went back to a time when he had looked forward to being something very different from a village schoolmaster, when he could have fancied no employment could be less to his liking than teaching. "I hope so, indeed," he repeated. "And if you work with a will you—get to like the work whatever it is."