"All roses are considered so," he remarked with a smile. While this little byplay was going on, Quincy had approached Alice, who, as usual, was sitting by the window, and placed in her hand a small bunch of flowers. As he did so he said in a low voice, "They are forget-me-nots. There is a German song about them, of which I remember a little," and he hummed a few measures. "Oh! thank you," cried Alice, as she held the flowers before her eyes in a vain effort to see them. "The music is pretty. Can't you remember any of the words?" "Only a few," replied Quincy. Then he repeated in a low, but clear voice: "There is the sweet flower They call forget-me-not; That flower place on thy breast, And think of me." "Say, Quincy, can't you come over here and recite a little poem about roses to Miss Very, just to help me out?" cried Leopold. "All I can think of is: "The rose is red, The violet's blue--" "Stop where you are," said Rosa laughingly, "for that will do." Alice dropped the forget-me-nots, in her lap. The illusion was dispelled. The newly-completed chapters were next read, and quite a spirited discussion took place in regard to the political features introduced in one of them. Dinner intervened and then the discussion was resumed. Alice maintained that to write about Aaron Burr and omit politics would be the play of "Hamlet," with Hamlet left out; and her auditors were charmed and yet somewhat startled at the impassioned and eloquent manner in which she defended Burr's political principles. When she finished Leopold said, "Miss Pettengill, if you will put in your book the energetic defence that you have just made, I will withdraw my objections." "You will find that and more in the next chapter," Alice replied. And the reading was resumed. The angry, threatening clouds had massed themselves once more; the thunder roared; the lightning flashed and the rain fell in torrents. Leopold walked to the window and looked out. "Walking is out of the question," said he; "will you come for a sail?" Music filled the evening, and during a lull in the storm the young men reached their lodgings. Another month had nearly passed. The weather was much warmer, but there was a great incentive to hard work--the book was nearly finished. Quincy had sent down a package of books soon after his return home, and Alice and Rosa had worked even harder than in June. Another letter went from Miss Very to Mr. Sawyer. It contained but a few words: "The book is done. Miss Pettengill herself wrote the words, 'The end,' on the last page, signed her name, and dated it 'July 30, 186--.' She awaits your verdict."