“I don’t think she does.”
“Then there’s an end of it.” And so they went to bed.
“Frank,” said the sister to her elder brother, knocking at his door when they had all gone up stairs, “may I come in,—if you are not in bed?”
“In bed,” said he, looking up with some little pride from his Greek book; “I’ve one hundred and fifty lines to do before I can get to bed. It’ll be two, I suppose. I’ve got to mug uncommon hard these holidays. I have only one more half, you know, and then——”
“Don’t overdo it, Frank.”
“No; I won’t overdo it. I mean to take one day a week, and work eight hours a day on the other five. That will be forty hours a week, and will give me just two hundred hours for the holidays. I have got it all down here on a table. That will be a hundred and five for Greek play, forty for Algebra—” and so he explained to her the exact destiny of all his long hours of proposed labour. He had as yet been home a day and a half, and had succeeded in drawing out with red lines and blue figures the table which he showed her. “If I can do that, it will be pretty well; won’t it?”
“But, Frank, you have come home for your holidays,—to enjoy yourself?”
“But a fellow must work now-a-days.”
“Don’t overdo it, dear; that’s all. But, Frank, I could not rest if I went to bed without speaking to you. You made me unhappy to-day.”
“Did I, Bessy?”