a, very justly surprised.

"Yes," loftily. Kit's educational course, as directed by herself, has
been of the erratic order, and has embraced many topics unknown to
Monica. From the political economy of the Faroe Isles, it has reached
even to the hidden mysteries of Hindostan.

"I must have struck you then as being in my liveliest mood," says
Monica, still laughing. "Terry told us yesterday he was as gay as old
boots. As I looked like _one_, I suppose I was at least half as gay as
he was. After all, there is nothing like leather, no matter how
ancient."

"There's an _h_ in my bhoot," says Kit, with some disgust. "Really, the
ignorance of some people--even the _nicest_--is, surprising."

"Then why don't you take it out?" says Monica, frivolously. "Not that I
know in the very least what harm a poor innocent letter could do there."

"You don't understand," says Kit, pitifully.

"I don't indeed," says Monica, unabashed.

"A bhoot is an Indian ghost."

"And you thought I looked like an Indian ghost! with a turban! and an
Afghan! and a scimitar! Oh, Kit! Did I really look like the mahogany
table beneath the silver moonbeams? and did my eyes glitter?"

"What a goose you are!" says Kit, roaring with laughter. "No, you looked
lovely; but I was reading an Indian story yesterday, and it came into my
head."

"You read too much," says Monica. "'Much learning will make you mad,' if
you don't take care. Remember what Lord Bacon says, 'Reading maketh a
full man.' How would _you_ like to be a full woman,--like Madam
O'Connor, for example?"

"Francis Bacon never meant it in that sense," says Kit, indignantly. "I
really _wonder_ at you Monica." And, having so scolded her idol, she
relapses into silence for a considerable time.

"Oh! what lovely dog-roses!" says Monica, presently, pointing to a
hanging spray of pink blossoms, satisfying as a happy dream. "I _must_
get them."

She springs up a mossy bank as she speaks, regardless of the blackberry
branches that cross her path, barring her way, and catching viciously
at her skirts, as though to hinder her progress.

"Oh, take care!" cries Kit, forgetting all about Lord Bacon in her
terror lest her pretty sister shall not show to the best advantage in
her lover's eyes. "Your gown will be torn. Wait, wait, until I set you
free from these dreadful thorns."

"'Alas! how full of briers is this working-day-world,'" quotes Monica,
gayly. "There, now I am all right, and I have got