style="font-size:15px;"> “Why, it would have been rather absurd,” said Mrs. May, laughing, “to begin to torment myself whether you were all fond of me! You all have just as much affection for me, from beginning to end, as is natural, and what’s the use of thinking about it? No, no, Margaret, don’t go and protest that you love me, more than is natural,” as Margaret looked inclined to say something very eager, “that would be in the style of Regan and Goneril. It will be natural by-and-by that you should, some of you, love some one else better, and if I cared for being first, what should I do then?”
“Oh, mamma! But,” said Margaret suddenly, “you are always sure of papa.”
“In one way, yes,” said Mrs. May; “but how do I know how long—” Calm as she was, she could not finish that sentence. “No, Margaret, depend upon it, the only security is not to think about ourselves at all, and not to fix our mind on any affection on earth. The least share of the Love above is the fullness of all blessing, and if we seek that first, all these things will be added unto us, and are,” she whispered, more to herself than to Margaret.
CHAPTER III
Wee modest crimson-tipped flower,
Thou’st met me in an evil hour,
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem.
To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonnie gem.
“Is this all the walking party?” exclaimed Mr. Ernescliffe, as Miss Winter, Flora, and Norman gathered in the hall.
“Harry won’t go because of Ethel’s spectacles,” answered Flora; “and Mary and he are inseparable, so they are gone with Hector to have a shipwreck in the field.”
“And your other sisters?”
“Margaret has ratted—she is going to drive out with mamma,” said Norman; “as to Etheldred the Unready, I’ll run up and hurry her.”
In a moment he was at her door. “Oh! Norman, come in. Is it time?”
“I should think so! You’re keeping every one waiting.”
“Oh, dear! go on; only just tell me the past participle of ‘offero’, and I’ll catch you up.”
“‘Oblatus.’”
“Oh, yes, how stupid. The ‘a’ long or short? Then that’s right. I had such a line in my head, I was forced to write it down. Is not it a capital subject this time?”
“The devotion of Decius? Capital. Let me see!” said Norman, taking up a paper scribbled in pencil, with Latin verses. “Oh, you have taken up quite a different line from mine. I began with Mount Vesuvius spouting lava like anything.”
“But Mount Vesuvius didn’t spout till it overthrew Pompeii.”
“Murder!” cried Norman, “I forgot! It’s lucky you put me in mind. I must make a fresh beginning. There go my six best lines! However, it was an uncanny place, fit for hobgoblins, and shades, and funny customers, which will do as well for my purpose. Ha! that’s grand about its being so much better than the vana gloria triumphalis—only take care of the scanning there—”
“If it was but English. Something like this:
“For what is equal to the fame
Of forgetting self in the aim?
That’s not right, but—”
“Ethel, Norman, what are you about?” cried Flora. “Do you mean to go to Cocksmoor to-day?”
“Oh, yes!” cried Ethel, flying into vehement activity; “only I’ve lost my blue-edged handkerchief—Flora, have you seen it?”
“No; but here is your red scarf.”
“Thank you, there is a good Flora. And oh! I finished a frock all but two stitches. Where is it gone? Go on, all of you, I’ll overtake you:
“Purer than breath of earthly fame,
Is losing self in a glorious aim.
“Is that better, Norman?”
“You’ll drive us out of patience,” said Flora, tying the handkerchief round Ethel’s throat, and pulling out the fingers of her gloves, which, of course, were inside out; “are you ready?”
“Oh, my frock! my frock! There ‘tis—three stitches—go on, and I’ll come,” said Ethel, seizing a needle, and sewing vehemently at a little pink frock. “Go on, Miss Winter goes slowly up the hill, and I’ll overtake you.”
“Come, Norman, then; it is the only way to make her come at all.”
“I shall wait for her,” said Norman. “Go on, Flora, we shall catch you up in no time;” and, as Flora went, he continued, “Never mind your aims and fames and trumpery English rhymes. Your verses will be much the best, Ethel; I only went on a little about Mount Vesuvius and the landscape, as Alan described it the other day, and Decius taking a last look, knowing he was to die. I made him beg his horse’s pardon, and say how they will both be remembered, and their self-devotion would inspire Romans to all posterity, and shout with a noble voice!” said Norman, repeating some of his lines, correcting them as he proceeded.
“Oh! yes; but oh, dear, I’ve done! Come along,” said Ethel, crumpling her work into a bundle, and snatching up her gloves; then, as they ran downstairs, and emerged into the street, “It is a famous subject.”
“Yes, you have made a capital beginning. If you won’t break down somewhere, as you always do, with some frightful false quantity, that you would get an imposition for, if you were a boy. I wish you were. I should like to see old Hoxton’s face, if you were to show him up some of these verses.”
“I’ll tell you what, Norman, if I was you, I would not make Decius flatter himself with the fame he was to get—it is too like the stuff every one talks in stupid books. I want him to say—Rome—my country—the eagles—must win, if they do—never mind what becomes of me.”
“But why should he not like to get the credit of it, as he did? Fame and glory—they are the spirit of life, the reward of such a death.”
“Oh, no, no,” said Ethel. “Fame is coarse and vulgar—blinder than ever they draw Love or Fortune—she is only a personified newspaper, trumpeting out all that is extraordinary, without minding whether it is good or bad. She misses the delicate and lovely—I wished they would give us a theme to write about her. I should like to abuse her well.”
“It would make a very good theme, in a new line,” said Norman; “but I don’t give into it, altogether. It is the hope and the thought of fame, that has made men great, from first to last. It is in every one that is not good for nothing, and always will be! The moving spirit of man’s greatness!”
“I’m not sure,” said Ethel; “I think looking for fame is like wanting a reward at once. I had rather people forgot themselves. Do you think Arnold von Winkelried thought about fame when he threw himself on the spears?”
“He got it,” said
