“I hardly know, Arthur. The statesman who presides in his country’s councils, and guides at the helm of state, has a proud, a noble position. But the author, again, who influences a nation’s mind, and stirs up the heart of a people, is one of the benefactors of his race. I should wish, however, that you consult your own taste and genius in the choice of your future career, my son.” “There was Sir Walter Scott, mother—he surely stirred up the heart of a people. To be read all over the world must be glorious! And yet to be William Pitt—prime minister at one-and-twenty!—I think, mother, I’d rather be William Pitt—” “You had better study your lesson, Arthur,” said Frank Ashhurst, a youth of about the same age, in a low tone, without raising his eyes from the Greek page which lay open before him. But Arthur, too intent upon the comparative merits of statesmen and authors, Sir Walter Scott and William Pitt, took little heed of his friend’s suggestion, but eagerly pursued the conversation with his scarce less interested mother, who gazed in his sparkling eyes and animated face, and thought every question the indication of aspiring genius and the prompting of proud ambition. Mrs. Harrington was a woman of some reading, and lively imagination, and, full of theories, thought herself a genius; and so she delighted in what she called “cultivating Arthur’s mind;” and thus they talked on of heroes and authors and great men, while Arthur’s spirit soaring beyond his Latin exercise, and expanding in the region of castle building, (which his mother, not less than himself mistook for the land of inspiration,) quite forgot the studies of the morrow. Francis Ashhurst, meanwhile, never raised his eyes from the book he so intently studied, while the silent but rapid movement of his lips, and earnest expression of his dark eyes, showed he had no ears for the discussion going on at his side. Presently drawing a long breath, he closed his book and put it one side. “Have you finished your Greek already, Frank?” asked Arthur. “Yes,” he replied, opening his mathematics. “You had better be studying. It is late.” “We had better talk no more now, Arthur,” said Mrs. Harrington gently. “You do not know all your lessons yet.” Arthur sighed, and studied a little while, and then yawned, and presently began again with, “But, mother, do you think that literary fame is as great—as glorious—as political or—military even—Wellington and Napoleon were greater—” “Arthur,” said Frank, in a low, quiet tone, “you have your Greek yet, and your problems—” “Oh, I hate mathematics!” said the boy, impatient of his cousin’s sober interruption. “A mathematician is never a man of genius. And I have no genius for mathematics,” he added contemptuously, “though you have, I believe, Francis.” Francis made no reply. He was deep in a problem, and did not look up to answer, or perhaps did not even hear his cousin’s taunt.