ves at all, and not
to fix our mind on any affection on earth. The least share of the Love
above is the fullness of all blessing, and if we seek that first, all
these things will be added unto us, and are," she whispered, more to
herself than to Margaret.

CHAPTER III.

Wee modest crimson-tipped flower,
Thou'st met me in an evil hour,
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem.
To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonnie gem.
BURNS.

"Is this all the walking party?" exclaimed Mr. Ernescliffe, as Miss
Winter, Flora, and Norman gathered in the hall.

"Harry won't go because of Ethel's spectacles," answered Flora; "and
Mary and he are inseparable, so they are gone with Hector to have a
shipwreck in the field."

"And your other sisters?"

"Margaret has ratted--she is going to drive out with mamma," said
Norman; "as to Etheldred the Unready, I'll run up and hurry her."

In a moment he was at her door. "Oh! Norman, come in. Is it time?"

"I should think so! You're keeping every one waiting."

"Oh, dear! go on; only just tell me the past participle of 'offero', and
I'll catch you up."

"'Oblatus.'"

"Oh, yes, how stupid. The 'a' long or short? Then that's right. I had
such a line in my head, I was forced to write it down. Is not it a
capital subject this time?"

"The devotion of Decius? Capital. Let me see!" said Norman, taking up
a paper scribbled in pencil, with Latin verses. "Oh, you have taken up
quite a different line from mine. I began with Mount Vesuvius spouting
lava like anything."

"But Mount Vesuvius didn't spout till it overthrew Pompeii."

"Murder!" cried Norman, "I forgot! It's lucky you put me in mind. I must
make a fresh beginning. There go my six best lines! However, it was
an uncanny place, fit for hobgoblins, and shades, and funny customers,
which will do as well for my purpose. Ha! that's grand about its being
so much better than the vana gloria triumphalis--only take care of the
scanning there--"

"If it was but English. Something like this:

"For what is equal to the fame
Of forgetting self in the aim?

That's not right, but--"

"Ethel, Norman, what are you about?" cried Flora. "Do you mean to go to
Cocksmoor to-day?"

"Oh, yes!" cried Ethel, flying into vehement activity; "only I've lost
my blue-edged handkerchief--Flora, have you seen it?"

"No; but here is your re