You must tell them you _won't_ do it; I can't be always at your elbow; I've quarrelled more with the boys than ever I did, since you came, on your account." "Oh dear! I am sorry I came," sighed Louis, "I do so long to be a little quiet.

Reginald, dear, I am so sorry I should give you any trouble.

Oh, I have lost all my happy thoughts, and I know every thing is sure to go wrong." Louis remained sadly silent for a few minutes, and then, raising his tearful eyes to his brother, who was sitting with his chin on his hands, watching him, he begged him to leave him, declaring he should not learn any thing while Reginald was with him.
Thus urged, Reginald took his departure, though, with his customary unselfish affection, he would rather have stayed and helped him.
When he was gone, Louis began slowly to turn over the leaves of his Lexicon, in order to prepare his lesson.

He had not been long thus employed, when he was interrupted by the irruption of the greatest dunce in the school, introduced to the reader in the former chapter as Churchill, _alias_ Oars, a youth of fifteen, who had constant recourse to Louis for information.

He now laid his dog's-eared Eutropius before Louis, and opened his business with his usual "Come now, tell us, Louis--help us a bit, Louis." "Indeed, Harry, it is impossible," said Louis sorrowfully.