he would rather make some difference in the way of doing it. What if,
instead of sinking the letters in the frame, he made them stand up from
the frame by cutting it away to some depth all round them. There was not
much originality in this, for it was only reversing what Spelman had
done; but it was more difficult, and would, he thought, be prettier.
Then what was he thus to carve? One would say, "Why, _William
Macmichael_, of course, and, if he liked, _Priory Leas_" But Willie was
a peculiar little fellow, and began to reason with himself whether he
had any right to put his own name on the slate. "My father did not give
me the slate," he said, "to be my very own. He gave me the knife like
that, but not the slate. When I am grown up, it will belong to Agnes.
What shall I put on it? What's mine's papa's, and what's papa's is his
own," argued Willie.--"_I_ know!" he said to himself at last.

The boys couldn't imagine what he meant to do when they saw him draw
first a D and then an O on the frame. But when they saw a C and a T
follow, they thought what a conceited little prig Willie was!

"Do you think you're a doctor because your father is, you little ape?"
they said.

"No, no," answered Willie, laughing heartily, but thinking, as he went
on with his work, that he might be one some day.

When the drawing of the letters was finished, there stood, all round the
slate, "_Doctor Macmichael's Willie, The Ruins, Priory Leas_."

Then out came his knife. But it was a long job, for Willie was not one
of those slovenly boys that _scamp_ their work. Such boys are nothing
but soft, pulpy creatures, who, when they grow to be men, will be too