e, and a vacation followed, lasting till
the first day of September. Of course, the Clionian Society, which
was composed of Academy students, suspended its meetings for the same
length of time. Indeed, the last meeting for the season took place
during the first week in June, as the evenings were too short and too
warm, and the weather was not favorable to oratory. At the last
meeting, an election was held of officers to serve for the following
term. The same President and Vice-President were chosen; but as the
Secretary declined to serve another term, Harry Walton, considerably
to his surprise, found himself elected in his place.

Fitzgerald Fletcher did not vote for him. Indeed, he expressed it as
his opinion that it was a shame to elect a "printer's devil"
Secretary of the Society.

"Why is it?" said Oscar. "Printing is a department of literature,
and the Clionian is a literary society, isn't it?"

"Of course it is a literary society, but a printer's devil is not
literary."

"He's as literary as a tin-pedler," said Tom Carver, maliciously.

Fletcher turned red, but managed to say, "And what does that prove?"

"We don't object to you because you are connected with the tin
business."

"Do you mean to insult me?" demanded Fletcher, angrily. "What have I
to do with the tin business?"

"Oh, I beg pardon, it's your cousin that's in it."

"I deny the relationship," said Fletcher, "and I will thank you not
to refer again to that vulgar pedler."

"Really, Fitz, you speak rather roughly, considering he's your
cousin. But as to Harry Walton, he's a fine fellow, and he has an
excellent handwriting, and I was very glad to vote for him."

Fitzgerald walked away, not a little disgusted, as well at the
allusion to the tin-pedler, as at the success of Harry Walton in
obtaining an office to which he had himself secretly aspired. He had
fancied that it would sound well to put "Secretary of the Clionian
Society" after his name, and would give him increased consequence at
home. As to the tin-pedler, it would have relieved his mind to hear
that Mr. Bickford had been carried off suddenly by an apoplectic fit,
and notwithstanding the tie of kindred, he would not have taken the
trouble to put on mourning in his honor.

Harry Walton sat in Oscar Vincent's room, on the last evening of the
term. He had just finished reciting the last French lesson in which
he would have Oscar's assistance for some time to come.

"You