discovered: an odd volume of Thackeray, another of Dickens, a
memorandum-book or diary. "This seems to be Latin," said Jessie, fishing
out a smaller book. "I can't read it."

"It's just as well you shouldn't," said Christie shortly, whose ideas
of a general classical impropriety had been gathered from pages of
Lempriere's dictionary. "Put it back directly."

Jessie returned certain odes of one Horatius Flaccus to the corner, and
uttered an exclamation. "Oh, Christie! here are some letters tied up
with a ribbon."

They were two or three prettily written letters, exhaling a faint odor
of refinement and of the pressed flowers that peeped from between the
loose leaves. "I see, 'My darling Fairfax.' It's from some woman."

"I don't think much of her, whosoever she is," said Christie, tossing
the intact packet back into the corner.

"Nor I," echoed Jessie.

Nevertheless, by some feminine inconsistency, evidently the circumstance
did make them think more of HIM, for a minute later, when they had
reentered their own room, Christie remarked, "The idea of petting a
man by his family name! Think of mamma ever having called papa 'darling
Carr'!"

"Oh, but his family name isn't Fairfax," said Jessie hastily; "that's
his FIRST name, his Christian name. I forget what's his other name, but
nobody ever calls him by it."