"Good for you, Florence; you're a trump," returned Alan. "I promise you, I won't so much as speak, if you'll let me stay; but it's awfully dull doing nothing, and mother's bound I shan't play ball. You wouldn't catch me here, if I could." "Ungrateful wretch!" exclaimed Polly, while Jean added,-- "No danger of your saying anything! You'll be sound asleep before we've read a page." "What's the use of reading it, then?" was Alan's pertinent question. "I'm sure I don't know," answered Florence. "It's one of Polly's ideas, or rather, Aunt Jane's." "Aunt Jane ought to be ganched!" remarked Alan, with calm disrespect; for Polly made no secret of Aunt Jane's eccentricities, and they were a common subject of discussion among the V. "I know it," confessed Polly, filled with shame at the thought of having such a relative. "Come, Polly, what is the use of reading this poky old book?" urged Molly. "'T isn't doing any of us the least bit of good. I've listened just as hard as I could, and I'm sure I haven't any idea what it's all about, it's told in such a queer way." Molly's use of the word "queer" said more than a dozen lesser adjectives. She had a singularly expressive manner of drawing it out, that threw untold meaning into its simple form. Alan used to declare that, if Molly once pronounced anything queer, its reputation was spoiled, as far as her hearers were concerned. This time Jean upheld her. "It is very poky," she announced, as she pulled a bit of hair out from one of the holes in the cushion, and fell to picking it to pieces. "I think it's too warm weather for it, Polly. I don't care what Aunt Jane says; I'm not going to waste these glorious summer days over such stuff." And she pointed disdainfully at the book, a square, clumsy volume, bound in dingy black cloth covers. Polly looked rather hurt. "I know all that, girls," she began; "but an hour a day, and only every other day, too, isn't very much to spend on it." "It's an hour too much, though, Polly," said Molly decisively. "This garret is so warm; wait till cooler weather, and then we'll try again. We shouldn't have time to finish it, anyway, before Jean had the play ready for us. How is it getting along, Jean?" "Awfully!" confessed Jean. "Whenever I sit down to write, my head is as empty as an egg is, after you've blown it." "Now, you girls let me plan for you," said Alan, moved to pity by Polly's downcast face. "You let your old book go till fall, and then start again, but only read half an hour a day. That's all your brains can take in, and I'll try to be on hand to explain it to you. How does that suit, Poll?" "I suppose it will have to do," sighed Polly. "I hate to give up, now we've started; but if you won't read, you won't." "Very true," remarked Jean, while Florence added,-- "Now, tell us truly, Polly, do you know what the man is talking about half the time?" "No, I don't know as I do," admitted Polly.