“Oh, Nell!” she said.
The French dictionary lay face downwards on the [47] ]broad window-sill; “Le Chien” was face upward on Nell’s knee, but on the top of it was “Not Wisely, but too Well.”
“Oh!” said Nell, with a gasp, her eyes misty, her cheeks flushed,—“oh, it’s no use scolding, Meg,—I absolutely must finish this; I’m just where Kate is—Oh, Meg, you are horrid!”
For Meg had taken forcible possession of the dark green book, and had picked up the dictionary.
“You know you are not to read in the morning,” she said; “and I don’t think you ought to read a love story like this till you’re eighteen at least. Really, Nellie, it’s no use me pretending to overlook you; you’ve done one page of ‘The Dog’ in three mornings. I’ll have to tell father I must give up the pretence of teaching.”
“Here, give it to me,” Nellie said, sighing wistfully; “it ought to be called ‘The Pig,’ I think, it’s so detestable. Put ‘Not Wisely’ on the table, Miggie, so I can see the title and get occasional refreshment.”
Then Meg returned to the “Privilege of Burial.” Her first thought, when she had read the piece through, was that Browning was not a true poet, however great a man he might be; and her second that Allan Courtney must be exceedingly clever to be able to enjoy such reading; her third was sorrow at [48] ]the poor brains she felt she must possess not to be able to enjoy it too.
She tried another at random—“Popularity.” It was rather better she decided, though she had no very clear idea of the meaning; and oh! that terrible last verse,—was it an enigma, or could clever people see the sense instantly?—
“Hobbs hints blue—straight he turtle eats:
Nobbs prints blue—claret crowns his cup