Mrs. Harrington had, however, the sense to follow Francis’s suggestion, and remind her son of the lateness of the hour; and taking up her own book, advised him to pursue his studies. Silence reigned for half an hour perhaps in the little party, which was at last broken by Arthur’s throwing his book on one side, saying, “There—I’ve done with you. Frank, give me the Greek Lexicon.” Francis complied with his request, saying with surprise, “Do you know it?” “Yes—well enough—I’ll look it over in the morning.” And in the same way he skimmed through his remaining studies. “Come, Frank,” said he, at last, “have you not almost done? How you do stick at those problems!” he continued impatiently. “Presently,” replied the other. “Don’t speak to me now.” And after some minutes intense application, he raised his head with a bright, calm look and said, “I’ve finished. What now, Arthur?” “You are studying for the mathematical prize, I suppose, Frank?” said Arthur. “For the prize! No,” replied Francis, with surprise. “I never thought of such a thing. Harry Forrester will carry that off, of course. You know he is far ahead of me.” “No—is he?” said Arthur. “I did not know it. What then makes you study so, if you have no chance of the prize?” “Why, Arthur,” said Frank, laughing, “if we only study to gain prizes, most of us may as well close our books at once, for there are but half a dozen prizes, and over a hundred boys. What is your number?” “Oh, I don’t know. Pretty low. If I can’t be head, I don’t care where I am. Mathematics is not the bent of my genius,” replied Arthur. “Nor mine, that I know of,” said Frank—“but, hang it, my genius has _got_ to bend to it for all that.” And there was a resolute tone, and a look of determination that showed that Frank Ashhurst was one who did not look for “aid and comfort” to his “genius” always, in difficulties. Mrs. Harrington smiled as she listened to the conversation. She said afterward to her husband— “Frank is a boy of no ambition. But he is a steady, plodding lad, and a very safe companion for Arthur. He’s a heavy boy—no genius—very different from Arthur.” And Arthur was a boy, in truth, that would have gratified the pride, and flattered the vanity, of most mothers, for he was what most parents like, a precocious, _showy_ boy. He was quick in abilities, handsome in person, tall of his age, with bright hazel eyes, and a round, glowing cheek; graceful, too, in his manners, and very fluent in speech—altogether a striking boy—somewhat forward, perhaps—but his good looks and cleverness made his peace with those who might have found fault with his want of diffidence.