“Next spring, if at all, but keep the secret, Ethel. I cannot have my father’s hopes raised.”
“I’ll tell you of a motto,” said Ethel. “Do you remember Mrs. Hemans’ mention of a saying of Sir Walter Scott—‘Never let me hear that brave blood has been shed in vain. It sends a roaring voice down through all time.’”
“If,” said Norman, rather ashamed of the enthusiasm which, almost approaching to the so-called “funny state” of his younger days, had trembled in his voice, and kindled his eye—“if you won’t let me put ‘nascitur ridiculus mus.’”
“Too obvious,” said Ethel. “Depend upon it, every undergraduate has thought of it already.”
Ethel was always very happy over Norman’s secrets, and went about smiling over Decius, and comparing her brother with such a one as poor Meta was afflicted with; wasting some superfluous pity and contempt on the weary weight that was inflicted on the Grange.
“What do you think of me?” said Margaret, one afternoon. “I have had Mr. George Rivers here for two hours.”
“Alone! what could bring him here?”
“I told him that every one was out, but he chose to sit down, and seemed to be waiting.”
“How could you get on?”
“Oh! we asked a few questions, and brought out remarks, with great difficulty, at long intervals. He asked me if lying here was not a great nuisance, and, at last, he grew tired of twisting his moustache, and went away.”