e begged. "We must get the Vergil now. I'm
reading an essay at the society to-night--they've fined me twice for
neglecting it. But if you stand there reminding me of what's going on
outside I'll not be able to resist."

"How this would look from Indian Rock!"

She flung open a Vergil text-book with a relentless shake of the head.
"I've got the place. Book three, line two forty-five--

"'Una in praecelsa consedit rupe Celaeno----'"

"It doesn't matter what that hideous old Harpy howled at the pious
Aeneas," he grumbled. "Let's go out and watch the Great God Pan
dedicate his brand-new temple."

"Do sit there!" She pointed a slim white forefinger at the chair at
the opposite side of the table--the side nearer him. "I'll be generous
and work the dictionary to-day." And she opened a fat, black,
dull-looking book beside the Vergil.

"Where's the Johnnie?" he asked, reluctantly dropping into the chair.

She laid Dryden's translation of the Aeneid on his side of the table.
They always read the poetical version before they began to translate
for the class-room--Dryden was near enough to the original to give them
its spirit, far enough to quiet their consciences. "Find the place
yourself," said she. "I'm not going to do everything."

He opened the Dryden and languidly turned the pages. "'At length
rebuff'd, they leave their mangled----'" he began.

"No--two or three lines farther down," she interrupted. "That was in
the last lesson."

He pushed back the rebellious lock that insisted on falling down the
middle of his forehead, plunged his elbows fiercely upon the table, put
his fists against his temples, and began again:

"'High on a craggy cliff Celaeno sate
And thus her dismal errand did relate--'

Have you got the place in the Latin?" he interrupted himself.

Fortunately he did not look up, for she was watching the waving boughs.
"Yes," she replied, hastily returning to the book. "You do your part
and I'll do mine."

He read a few lines in an absent-minded sing-song, then interrupted
himself once more: "Did you ever smell anything like that breeze?"

"Never. 'Bellum etiam pro caede bovum'--go on--I'm listening--or
trying to."

He read:

"'But know that ere your promised walls you build,
My curse shall severely be fulfilled.
Fierce famine is your lot--for this misdeed,
Reduced to grind the plates on which you feed.'"

He glanced at her. She was leaning on her elbow, obvio