"Now, Fanny, since it seems that more cannot be done at present, let us

see about the children's education. Where are their books?"

"We have very few books," said Fanny, hesitating; "we had not much

choice where we were."

"You should have written to me for a selection."

"Why--so we would, but there was always a talk of sending Conrade

and Francis home. I am afraid you will think them very backward, dear

Rachel, especially Francie; but it is not their fault, dear children,

and they are not used to strangers," added Fanny, nervously.

"I do not mean to be a stranger," said Rachel.

And while Fanny, in confusion, made loving protestations about not

meaning that, Rachel stepped out upon the lawn, and in her clear voice

called "Conrade, Francis!" No answer. She called "Conrade" again, and

louder, then turned round with "where can they be--not gone down on the

beach?"

"Oh, dear no, I trust not," said the mother, flurried, and coming to

the window with a call that seemed to Rachel's ears like the roar of a

sucking dove.

But from behind the bushes forth came the two young gentlemen, their

black garments considerably streaked with the green marks of laurel

climbing.

"Oh, my dears, what figures you are! Go to Coombe and get yourselves

brushed, and wash your hands, and then come down, and bring your lesson

books."

Rachel prognosticated that these preparations would be made the

occasion, of much waste of time; but she was answered, and with rather

surprised eyes, that they had never been allowed to come into the

drawing-room without looking like little gentlemen.

"But you are not living in state here," said Rachel; "I never could

enter into the cult some people, mamma especially, pay to their

drawing-room."

"The Major used to be very particular about their not coming to sit down

untidy," said Fanny. "He said it was not good for anybody."

Martinet! thought Rachel, nearly ready to advocate the boys making no

toilette at any time; and the present was made to consume so much time

that, urged by her, Fanny once more was obliged to summon her boys and

their books.

It was not an extensive school library--a Latin grammar an extremely

dilapidated spelling-book, and the fourth volume of Mrs. Marcet's

"Little Willie." The other three--one was unaccounted for, but Cyril

had torn up the second, and Francis had thrown the first overboard in

a passion. Rachel looked in dismay. "I don't know what can be done with

these!" she said.




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