“Jock, where did you learn such words? you never spoke like that before.” “Oh, it is being with those fellows,” said Jock. “If I were bigger I’d lick half of them; but I couldn’t lick half of them,” he added, reflectively, “for there’s only five now, and when Shuckwood is gone, and the one with the red hair, there will be three. But then one is me! there will only be two others left. You know, Lucy, Russell, the man himself, Mary’s brother, has made a book, and it’s all in print.” “Yes, I know. I hope he will make some money by it, and make poor Mrs. Russell more happy.” “Money!” This was an idea Jock could not fathom; he pondered it for a time, but did not arrive at any clear comprehension of it. “Will he go and knock at all the doors, and sell it like--the milkman?” asked the child, with much doubt in his tone. The milkman was striding cheerfully along with his pails, uttering a mysterious but friendly howl at every door, and furnishing Jock with the simile. He thought the milkman a very interesting person, but he did not realize Bertie Russell in the same trade. “I don’t think he would do it,” Jock said confidentially; “and if it was only one book, it would not be much good. I should like to be a peddler with a heap of books; then you could read the rest, and sell them when you had finished them. But, Lucy,” cried the child, “what I would like best of all would be to ride on, and on, and on, like this, and never stop, except at night, to lie on the grass, and tell stories, like that book about the knight and the squire, and the manciple. What is a manciple?” Jock asked, suddenly impressed by the charms of the unknown word. “I can’t tell in the least, I never heard of it, Jock. Doesn’t it vex poor Mrs. Russell when the boys go?” “When the fellows, leave? oh, I don’t know. I tell you they’re not much of fellows; I don’t see why she should care,” said the little ignoramus serenely. “I wish they were all gone, then Mary would have time to improve her mind.” “Poor Mary! has she so much to do?” “She is always having the fellows for something. When we have not Latin we have geography. And we don’t often have Latin. Russell, he’s busy, or he’s got a headache. The fellows say--” “What little gossips! Tell me what Latin you have learned, Jock.” “Oh, nothing at all. Penn-a, penna-ah--or perhaps it’s penn-ah--penn-a, I never can remember. It is far easier just to say pen, as you do, Lucy. And then we have counting; two times three is six, three times three-- I’ll tell you that another time; the pony jumps about when I try to do arithmetic in my head.” “But they are always very good to you, Jock? you are happy there?” This was the burden of all their talks, the constantly-recurring chorus. This time Jock, who usually said, “Oh, yes,” with indifference to the question, laughed, which was rare with him.