d he used to be
too shy to speak a word.

However, he had learned the use of his tongue by this time, though it
was a very soft one; and he stood by Ethel, asking many questions about
Stoneborough, while something, apparently very spirited and amusing, was
going on between the others.

The dinner went off well--there were few enough for the conversation to
be general. The young men began to strike out sparks of wit against each
other--Flora put in a word or two--Ethel grew so much interested in the
discussion, that her face lighted up, and she joined in it, as if it had
been only between her father and brother--keen, clear, and droll. After
that, she had her full share in the conversation, and enjoyed it so much
that, when she left the dinner-table, she fetched her writing-case to
sketch the colloquy for Margaret and her father.

Flora exclaimed at her for never allowing any one to think of rest. Meta
said she should like to do the same, but it was impossible now; she did
not know how she should ever settle down to write a letter. Ethel was
soon interrupted--the gentlemen entered, and Mr. Ogilvie came to the
window, where she was sitting, and began to tell her how much obliged
to her he and his college were, for having insisted on her brother's
sending in his poem. "Thanks are due, for our being spared an infliction
next week," he said.

"Have you seen it?" she asked, and she was amused by the quick negative
movement of his head.

"I read my friend's poems? But our lungs are prepared! Will you give
me my cue--it is of no use to ask him when we are to deafen you. One
generally knows the crack passages--something beginning with 'Oh,
woman!' but it is well to be in readiness--if you would only forewarn me
of the telling hits?"

"If they cannot tell themselves," said Ethel, smiling, "I don't think
they deserve the name."

"Perhaps you think what does tell on the undergraduates, collectively,
is not always what ought to tell on them."

"I don't know. I dare say the same would not be a favourite with them
and with me."

"I should like to know which are your favourites. No doubt you have a
copy here--made by yourself;" and he looked towards her paper-case.

There was the copy, and she took it out, peering to see whether Norman
were looking.

"Let me see," he said, as she paused to open the MS., "he told me the
thoughts were more yours than his own."

"Did he? That was not fair. One thought was an old one, long