touc is still. er, , love is brief. Spring, t King. O! to be in England no April’s t  y is to glory—” e could listen to no more of this gibberish.

    “e  no more poetry!” we cried.

    “Daug er getting spilt over he scuffle.

    “t and see if I can’t brus remains of tically. Getting up so explain to us ures are like opped her.

    “ is ture?” s by tes  to meet eac your   Oxbridge, disguised as a co ttempt to give you some idea—only,” s to do it. It’s all so queer. t on, “live in large  round grass plots eac t. You o press a button or ligtle lamp. tifully filed. Books abound. tray cats and one aged bullfinc of mine uses. You reacory t pipes, , bristly little plants eace pot. Once in a  said. But s old o keep to t. “ell,” s, I examined ion of Sapp’s a queer looking book, six or seven inc all by Sapp of it is a defence of Sappity, lemen argued, ty ed t ounded me; especially  y?” e misunderstood her.

    “No, no,” sested, “ t ain in t. I ’s cactuses.  could t city?”

    Again old  to ,—did to produce good people and good books?—ts of life.

    “t never struck me to ask. It never occurred to me t thing.”

    “I believe,” said Sue, “t you made some mistake. Probably Professor . A sc sort of man. A scion—pered to  ?—a deligle, imaginative—as stands to reason. For   ed.”

    “alia. “Perter go back and try again.”

    Some ter it  I ting alone ered. I don’t kno  so moved me; but I could not restrain myself, and, das only s. “ down.

    “I’ve been at O