“Don’t tell me, Maggie; _Sunt etiam volucrum_—_Sunt etiam volucrum_—_ut ostrea, cetus_——” “No,” said Maggie, opening her mouth and shaking her head. “_Sunt etiam volucrum_,” said Tom, very slowly, as if the next words might be expected to come sooner when he gave them this strong hint that they were waited for. “C, e, u,” said Maggie, getting impatient. “Oh, I know—hold your tongue,” said Tom. “_Ceu passer, hirundo; Ferarum_—_ferarum_——” Tom took his pencil and made several hard dots with it on his book-cover—“_ferarum_——” “Oh dear, oh dear, Tom,” said Maggie, “what a time you are! _Ut_——” “_Ut ostrea_——” “No, no,” said Maggie, “_ut tigris_——” “Oh yes, now I can do,” said Tom; “it was _tigris, vulpes_, I’d forgotten: _ut tigris, volupes; et Piscium_.” With some further stammering and repetition, Tom got through the next few lines. “Now, then,” he said, “the next is what I’ve just learned for to-morrow. Give me hold of the book a minute.” After some whispered gabbling, assisted by the beating of his fist on the table, Tom returned the book. “_Mascula nomina in a_,” he began. “No, Tom,” said Maggie, “that doesn’t come next. It’s _Nomen non creskens genittivo_——” “_Creskens genittivo!_” exclaimed Tom, with a derisive laugh, for Tom had learned this omitted passage for his yesterday’s lesson, and a young gentleman does not require an intimate or extensive acquaintance with Latin before he can feel the pitiable absurdity of a false quantity. “_Creskens genittivo!_ What a little silly you are, Maggie!” “Well, you needn’t laugh, Tom, for you didn’t remember it at all. I’m sure it’s spelt so; how was I to know?” “Phee-e-e-h! I told you girls couldn’t learn Latin. It’s _Nomen non crescens genitivo_.” “Very well, then,” said Maggie, pouting. “I can say that as well as you can. And you don’t mind your stops. For you ought to stop twice as long at a semicolon as you do at a comma, and you make the longest stops where there ought to be no stop at all.” “Oh, well, don’t chatter. Let me go on.” They were presently fetched to spend the rest of the evening in the drawing-room, and Maggie became so animated with Mr Stelling, who, she felt sure, admired her cleverness, that Tom was rather amazed and alarmed at her audacity. But she was suddenly subdued by Mr Stelling’s alluding to a little girl of whom he had heard that she once ran away to the gypsies. “What a very odd little girl that must be!” said Mrs Stelling, meaning to be playful; but a playfulness that turned on her supposed oddity was not at all to Maggie’s taste. She feared that Mr Stelling, after all, did not think much of her, and went to bed in rather low spirits. Mrs Stelling, she felt, looked at her as if she thought her hair was very ugly because it hung down straight behind.