“Oh no; she is very comfortable, and the doctor says she may get up to-morrow.”
“Then is it the Greek?” said Mr. Ogilvie, much relieved.
“Yes. Bobus says my rendering is perfectly ridiculous.”
“Are you preparing for him?”
“No. He is sick of me, and has no time to attend to me now.”
“Let me see—”
“Oh! Mr. Ogilvie,” said Armine, looking up with his ingenuous eyes. “I don’t deserve it. Besides, Bobus says it is of no use now. I’ve wasted too much time ever to get into King’s.”
“I should like to judge of that. Suppose I examined you—not now, but to-morrow morning. Meantime, how do you construe this chorus? It is a tough one.”
Armine winked out of his eyes the tears that had risen at the belief that he had really in his wilfulness lost the hope of fulfilling the higher aims of his life, and with a trembling voice translated the passage he had been hammering over. A word from Mr. Ogilvie gave him the clue, and when that stumbling-block was past, he acquitted himself well enough to warrant a little encouragement.
“Well done, Armine. We shall make a fair scholar of you, after all.”