"Doesn't want to come, you mean. Wouldn't you like to hear me read to Horace, Samuel?"
I was greatly interested in the turtles, but I was also fond of being read to. Apparently I was going to lose the company of Horace, anyhow. Moreover, I was afraid of Horace's aunt. So I meekly said:—
"Yes'm."
But Horace still raised objections.
"We can't leave the turtles like this Aunt,—they'll all get away."
"Horace, mind what I say this minute. You can make the turtles safe enough. I will give you three minutes longer, and if you are not indoors then, your uncle will punish you this evening."
We collected the wayward turtles and put them in a garden basket. A few seconds later we presented ourselves before Mrs. Vincent, who looked at us ominously over the top of a book. Horace sat down in one stiff-backed chair, and I in another. He began to screw his face into knots as soon as he saw the book.
It was unknown to me, and fifteen or twenty years were to elapse before I should know its title. Then, one day, reading Guizot's "History of France," I recognized a passage, and realized with what work we had been regaled,—when we wished to build a turtle-pen.
"Oh, Aunt—"