the upper shelf in the dining-room. Don't you remember papa's
telling us the meaning of them, when we had the grand book-dusting?"

He was conscious of nothing but his book; however, she found the
logarithms, and brought them to Mr. Ernescliffe, staying to look at
his drawing, and asking what he was making out. He replied, smiling
at the impossibility of her understanding, but she wrinkled her brown
forehead, hooked her long nose, and spent the next hour in amateur
navigation.

Market Stoneborough was a fine old town. The Minster, grand with the
architecture of the time of Henry III., stood beside a broad river,
and round it were the buildings of a convent, made by a certain good
Bishop Whichcote, the nucleus of a grammar school, which had survived
the Reformation, and trained up many good scholars; among them, one
of England's princely merchants, Nicholas Randall, whose effigy knelt
in a niche in the chancel wall, scarlet-cloaked, white-ruffed, and
black doubletted, a desk bearing an open Bible before him, and a
twisted pillar of Derbyshire spar on each side. He was the founder
of thirteen almshouses, and had endowed two scholarships at Oxford,
the object of ambition of the Stoneborough boys, every eighteen
months.

There were about sixty or seventy boarders, and the town boys slept
at home, and spent their weekly holiday there on Saturday--the
happiest day in the week to the May family, when alone, they had the
company at dinner of Norman and Harry, otherwise known by their
school names of June and July, given them because their elder brother
had begun the series of months as May.