“Is this all the walking party?” exclaimed Mr. Ernescliffe, as Miss Winter, Flora, and Norman gathered in the hall.
“Harry won’t go because of Ethel’s spectacles,” answered Flora; “and Mary and he are inseparable, so they are gone with Hector to have a shipwreck in the field.”
“Margaret has ratted--she is going to drive out with mamma,” said Norman; “as to Etheldred the Unready, I’ll run up and hurry her.”
In a moment he was at her door. “Oh! Norman, come in. Is it time?”
“I should think so! You’re keeping every one waiting.”
“Oh, dear! go on; only just tell me the past participle of ‘offero’, and I’ll catch you up.”
“Oh, yes, how stupid. The ‘a’ long or short? Then that’s right. I had such a line in my head, I was forced to write it down. Is not it a capital subject this time?”
“The devotion of Decius? Capital. Let me see!” said Norman, taking up a paper scribbled in pencil, with Latin verses. “Oh, you have taken up quite a different line from mine. I began with Mount Vesuvius spouting lava like anything.”
“But Mount Vesuvius didn’t spout till it overthrew Pompeii.”
“Murder!” cried Norman, “I forgot! It’s lucky you put me in mind. I must make a fresh beginning. There go my six best lines! However, it was an uncanny place, fit for hobgoblins, and shades, and funny customers, which will do as well for my purpose. Ha! that’s grand about its being so much better than the vana gloria triumphalis--only take care of the scanning there--”
“If it was but English. Something like this:
“For what is equal to the fame Of forgetting self in the aim?
“Ethel, Norman, what are you about?” cried Flora. “Do you mean to go to Cocksmoor to-day?”
“Oh, yes!” cried Ethel, flying into vehement activity; “only I’ve lost my blue-edged handkerchief--Flora, have you seen it?”
“Thank you, there is a good Flora. And oh! I finished a frock all but two stitches. Where is it gone? Go on, all of you, I’ll overtake you:
“Purer than breath of earthly fame, Is losing self in a glorious aim.
“You’ll drive us out of patience,” said Flora, tying the handkerchief round Ethel’s throat, and pulling out the fingers of her gloves, which, of course, were inside out; “are you ready?”
“Oh, my frock! my frock! There ‘tis--three stitches--go on, and I’ll come,” said Ethel, seizing a needle, and sewing vehemently at a little pink frock. “Go on, Miss Winter goes slowly up the hill, and I’ll overtake you.”