"`Una in praecelsa consedit rupe Celaeno----' "

"It doesn't matter what that hideous old Harpy howled at the
pious Aeneas," he grumbled. "Let's go out and watch the Great
God Pan dedicate his brand-new temple."

"Do sit there!" She pointed a slim white forefinger at the
chair at the opposite side of the table--the side nearer him.
"I'll be generous and work the dictionary to-day." And she
opened a fat, black, dull-looking book beside the Vergil.

"Where's the Johnnie?" he asked, reluctantly dropping into the
chair.

She laid Dryden's translation of the Aeneid on his side of the
table. They always read the poetical version before they began
to translate for the class-room--Dryden was near enough to the
original to give them its spirit, far enough to quiet their
consciences. "Find the place yourself," said she. "I'm not
going to do everything."

He opened the Dryden and languidly turned the pages. "`At
length rebuff'd, they leave their mangled----' " he began.

"No--two or three lines farther down," she interrupted. "That
was in the last lesson."

He pushed back the rebellious lock that insisted on falling down
the middle of his forehead, plunged his elbows fiercely upon the