book,' and, as far as I can observe, the phrase must be taken with very
considerable latitude; I still believe that the boy who `grinds,' as you
call it, is the abler boy of the two."

"Yes, Walter," said his brother, an old Hartonian, "whenever a fellow,
who has got a prize, tells you he won it without opening a book, set him
down as a shallow puppy, and don't believe him."

By this time four of the monitors were standing up to recite a scene
from the Merchant of Venice, and Home among them; his part was a very
slight one, and although there was nothing remarkable in his way of
acting, yet he had evidently studied with intelligence his author's
meaning, and his modest self-possession attracted favourable regards.
But, a few minutes after, he had to recite alone a passage of Tennyson's
Morte d'Arthur, and then he appeared to greater advantage. Standing in
a perfectly natural attitude, he began in low clear tones, enunciating
every line with a distinctness that instantly won attention, and at last
warming with his theme he modulated his voice with the requirements of
the verse, and used gestures so graceful, yet so unaffected, that when
with musical emphasis he spoke the last lines,--

"Long stood Sir Bedivere
Resolving many memories, till the hull
Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away,--"

he seemed entirely absorbed in the subject, and for half a minute stood
as if unconscious, until the deep murmur of applause startled his
meditations, and he sat down as naturally as he had risen.

"Well done, old Home," said Walter; while Mr Thornley nodded rapidly
two or three times, and murmured after him,--

"And on the mere the wailing died away."

"Really, I think Julian did that admirably, did he not?" said a young
and lovely girl to her mother, as Home sat down.

"By jingo," whispered Walter, "I believe these people just by us are
Home's people."

"People!" said his sister; "what do you mean by his people?"

"Oh, _you_ know, Mary; you girls are always shamming you don't
understand plain English. I mean his _people_."

Mary smiled, and looked at the strangers. "Yes, no doubt of it," she
said, "that young lady has just the same features as Mr Home, only
softened a little; more refined they could not be. And they've been
hearing all your rude remarks, Walter, no doubt."

The boy was right, for when the speeches were over, they saw Home offer
his arm to