.

PLATO AND VIRGIL.

Mr. Dale returned home to find metamorphosis; for Betty and John, egged
on by nurse, had taken advantage of his day from home to turn out the
study. This study had not been properly cleaned for years. It had never
had what servants are fond of calling a spring cleaning. Neither spring
nor autumn found any change for the better in that tattered, dusty, and
worn-out carpet; in those old moreen curtains which hung in heavy, dull
folds round the bay-window; in the leathern arm-chair, with very little
leather left about it; in the desk, which was so piled with books and
papers that it was difficult even to discover a clear space on which to
write. The books on the shelves, too, were dusty as dusty could be. Many
of them were precious folios--folios bound in calf which book-lovers
would have given a great deal for--but the dust lay thick on them, and
Betty said, with a look of disgust, that they soiled her fingers.

"Oh, drat you and your fingers!" said nurse. "You think of nothing but
those blessed trashy novels you are always reading. You must turn to now.
The master is certain to be back by the late afternoon train, and this
room has got to be put into apple-pie order before he returns."

"Yes," said John; "we won't lose the chance. We'll take each book from
its place on the shelf, dust it, and put it back again. We have a long
job before us, so don't you think any more of your novels and your grand
ladies and gentlemen, Betty, my woman."

"I have ceased to think of them," said Betty.

She stood with her hands hanging straight to her sides; her face was
quite pale.

"I trusted, and my trust failed me," she continued. "I was at a wedding
lately, John--you remember, don't you?--Dick Jones's wedding, at the
other side of the Forest. There was a beautiful wedding cake, frosted
over and almond-iced underneath, and ornaments on it, too--cupids and
doves and such-like. A pair of little doves sat as perky as you please on
the top of the cake, billing and cooing like anything. It made my eyes
water even to look at 'em. You may be sure I didn't think of Mary
Dugdale, the bride that was, nor of poor Jones, neither; although he is a
good looking man enough--I never said he wasn't. But my heart was in my
mouth thinking of that dear Dook of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton."

"Who in the name of fortune is he?" asked nurse.

"A hero of mine," said Betty.

Her face looked a little paler and more mournful even t