"
"Will he play with the abom'able red-dress children that make faces if
we tell mother?"
"Of _course_ he will."
"Why?"
"They always _do_, stupid."
"Why?"
Angela ran back. "Oh, Miss Humf'ay, Davie is so _irrating!_ He will
say _Why_ ...."
There is a lesson for parents in that conversation, I suspect.
II.
Leaning from our bridge we may content ourselves with a hurried shot
at George, laboriously toiling at his books, sedulously attending his
classes, with his Mary spending glorious Saturday mornings that, as
they brought him nearer to knowledge of her, sent him from her yet
more fevered; and, straining towards another point, we will focus for
an instant upon Margaret his cousin, and Bill Wyvern, her adored.
Mr. William Wyvern had most vigorously whacked about among events
since that evening when his Margaret had composed her verses for
George. At that time a fellow-student with George at St. Peter's
Hospital, he had now abandoned the profession and was started upon the
literary career (as he named it) that long he had wished to follow.
The change had been come by with little difficulty. Professor Wyvern--
that eminent biologist whose fame was so tremendous that even now a
normally forgetful Press yet continued to paragraph him while he spent
in absent-minded seclusion the ebb of that life which at the flood had
so mightily advanced knowledge--Professor Wyvern was too much attached
to his son, too docile in the hands of his loving wife, to gainsay any
wish that Bill might urge and that Mrs.
Pages:
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133