There was, indeed, a certain undeveloped idea held out that some of the duplicates of Fergus’s precious collection might be arranged as a sample of the specimens of minerals and fossils of Rockquay at the long-talked-of sale of work. CHAPTER VIII. -- THE MOUSE-TRAP If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent. Love’s Labour’s Lost. The young ladies were truly in an intense state of excitement about the sale of work, especially about the authorship; and Uncle Lancelot having promised to send an estimate, a meeting of the Mouse-trap was convened to consider of the materials, and certainly the mass of manuscript contributed at different times to the Mouse-trap magazine was appalling to all but Anna, who knew what was the shrinkage in the press. She, however, held herself bound not to inflict on her busy uncle the reading of anything entirely impracticable, so she sat with a stern and critical eye as the party mustered in Miss Mohun’s drawing-room, and Gillian took the chair. “The great design,” said she impressively, “is that the Mouse-trap should collect and print and publish a selection for the benefit of the school.” The Mice vehemently applauded, only Miss Norton, the oldest of the party, asked humbly-- “Would any one think it worth buying?” “Oh, yes,” cried Valetta. “Lots of translations!” “The Erl King, for instance,” put in Dolores Mohun. “If Anna would append the parody,” suggested Gillian. “Oh, parodies are--are horrid,” said Mysie. “Many people feel them so,” said Gillian, “but to others I think they are almost a proof of love, that they can make sport with what they admire so much.” “Then,” said Mysie, “there’s Dolores’ Eruption!” “What a nice subject,” laughed Gillian. “However, it will do beautifully, being the description of the pink terraces of that place with the tremendous name in New Zealand.” “Were you there?” cried Anna. “Yes. I always wonder how she can look the same after such adventures,” said Mysie. “You know it is much the same as my father’s paper in the Scientific World,” said Dolores. “Nobody over reads that, so it won’t signify,” was the uncomplimentary verdict. “And,” added Mysie, “Mr. Brownlow would do a history of Rockquay, and that would be worth having.” “Oh yes, the dear ghost and all!” cried Valetta. The acclamation was general, for the Reverend Armine Brownlow was the cynosure curate of the lady Church-helpers, and Mysie produced as a precious loan, to show what could be done, the volume containing the choicest morceaux of the family magazine of his youth, the Traveller’s Joy, in white parchment binding adorned with clematis, and emblazoned with the Evelyn arms on one side, the Brownlow on the other, and full of photographs and reproductions of drawings. “Much too costly,” said the prudent. “It was not for sale,” said Mysie, obviously uneasy while it was being handed round.