I put you in her keeping, while I am gone to Whitford.

After that, I dare say Richard will be very glad to have a holiday, and let you drive me to Abbotstoke." Norman rose, and wearily walked upstairs, while his sister lingered to excuse herself.

"Papa, I did not think Euripides would hurt him--he knows it all so well, and he said he could not read anything else." "Just so, Ethel.

Poor fellow, he has not spirits or energy for anything: his mind was forced into those classicalities when it wanted rest, and now it has not spring enough to turn back again." "Do you think him so very ill ?" "Not exactly, but there's low fever hanging about him, and we must look after him well, and I hope we may get him right.

I have told Margaret about him; I can't stop any longer now." Norman found the baby in his sister's room, and this was just what suited him.