"I shall take to reading him through when I get home." "Do you remember, Eric," said Montagu, "how Rose used to chaff us in old days for our ignorance of literature, and how indignant we used to be when he asked if we'd ever heard of an obscure person called William Shakspeare ?" "Yes, very well," answered Eric, laughing heartily.

And in this strain they continued to chat merrily, while the ladies enjoyed listening to their school-boy mirth.
"What a perfectly delicious evening.

It's almost enough to make me wish to live," said Eric.
He did not often speak thus; and it made them sad.

But Eric half sang, half murmured to himself, a hymn with which his mother's sweet voice had made him familiar in their cottage-home at Ellan:-- "There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found; They softly lie, and sweetly sleep, Low in the ground.
"The storm that wrecks the winter sky, No more disturbs their deep repose, Than summer evening's latest sigh That shuts the rose." The two last lines lingered pleasantly in his fancy and he murmured to himself again, in low tones-- "Than summer evening's latest sigh That shuts the rose." "Oh hush, hush, Eric!" said Wildney, laying his hand upon his friend's lips; "don't let's spoil to-night by forebodings." It seemed, indeed, a shame to do so, for it was almost an awful thing to be breathing the splendor of the transparent air, as the sun broadened and fell, and a faint violet glow floated over soft meadow and silver stream.

One might have fancied that the last rays of sunshine loved to linger over Eric's face, now flushed with a hectic tinge of pleasure, and to light up sudden glories in his bright hair, which the wind just fanned off his forehead as he leaned back and inhaled the luxury of evening perfume, which the flowers of the garden poured on the gentle breeze.