established
that Mrs. Wilson's books have in many instances stimulated her young
readers to study history, mythology, and the sciences, from which she
so frequently draws her illustrations."--Miss Rutherford.

A LEARNED AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION.

(_From St. Elmo._[36])

Edna had risen to leave the room when the master of the house entered,
but at his request resumed her seat and continued reading.

After searching the shelves unavailingly, he glanced over his shoulder
and asked:

"Have you seen my copy of De Guerin's Centaur anywhere about the
house? I had it a week ago."

"I beg your pardon, sir, for causing such a fruitless search; here is
the book. I picked it up on the front steps where you were reading a
few evenings since, and it opened at a passage that attracted my
attention."

She closed the volume and held it toward him, but he waved it back.

"Keep it if it interests you. I have read it once, and merely wished
to refer to a particular passage. Can you guess what sentence most
frequently recurs to me? If so, read it to me."

He drew a chair close to the hearth and lighted his cigar.

Hesitatingly Edna turned the leaves.

"I am afraid, sir, that my selection will displease you."

"I will risk it, as, notwithstanding your flattering opinion to the
contrary, I am not altogether so unreasonable as to take offense at a
compliance with my own request."

Still she shrank from the task he imposed, and her fingers toyed with
the scarlet fuchsias; but after eyeing her for a while, he leaned
forward and pushed the glass bowl beyond her reach.

"Edna, I am waiting."

"Well, then, Mr. Murray, I should think that these two passages would
impress you with peculiar force."

Raising the book, she read with much emphasis:

"'Thou pursuest after wisdom, O Melampus! which is the science of the
will of the gods; _and thou roamest from people to people, like a
mortal driven by the destinies_. In the times when I kept my
night-watches before the caverns, I have sometimes believed that I was
about to surprise the thoughts of the sleeping Cybele, and that the
mother of the gods, betrayed by her dreams, would let fall some of her
secrets. But I have never yet made out more than sounds which faded
away in the murmur of night, or words inarticulate as the bubbling of
the rivers.' . . . 'Seekest thou to know the gods, O Macareus! and
from what source, men, animals, and elements of the universal fire
have their