"I went to Arkie," said the boy, "but she couldn't help me. I can't
make sense of this! I wouldn't care if it wasn't a story."

He had an old folio under one arm, with a finger of the other hand
in its leaves.

"It is a curious taste for a child!" said the youth, turning to
Donal, in whom he had recognized the peasant-scholar: "this little
brother of mine reads all the dull old romances he can lay his hands
on."

"Perhaps," suggested Donal, "they are the only fictions within his
reach! Could you not turn him loose upon sir Walter Scott?"

"A good suggestion!" he answered, casting a keen glance at Donal.

"Will you let me look at the passage?" said Donal to the boy,
holding out his hand.

The boy opened the book, and gave it him. On the top of the page
Donal read, "The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia." He had read of
the book, but had never seen it.

"That's a grand book!" he said.

"Horribly dreary," remarked the elder brother.

The younger reached up, and laid his finger on the page next him.