never yet fallen behind him. On Saturday, he showed her what were
his tasks for the week, and as soon as her rent was repaired, she
swung herself downstairs in search of him for this purpose. She
found him in the drawing-room, a pretty, pleasant room--its only
fault that it was rather too low. It had windows opening down to the
lawn, and was full of pretty things, works and knick-knacks. Ethel
found the state of affairs unfavourable to her. Norman was intent on
a book on the sofa, and at the table sat Mr. Ernescliffe, hard at
work with calculations and mathematical instruments. Ethel would not
for the world that any one should guess at her classical studies--she
scarcely liked to believe that even her father knew of them, and to
mention them before Mr. Ernescliffe would have been dreadful. So she
only shoved Norman, and asked him to come.

"Presently," he said.

"What have you here?" said she, poking her head into the book. "Oh!
no wonder you can't leave off. I've been wanting you to read it all
the week."

She read over him a few minutes, then recoiled: "I forgot, mamma told
me not to read those stories in the morning. Only five minutes,
Norman."

"Wait a bit, I'll come."

She fidgeted, till Mr. Ernescliffe asked Norman if there was a table
of logarithms in the house.

"Oh, yes," she answered; "don't you know, Norman? In a brown book on