“Not in the least. Come along.”
Donal lingered: the youth had not finish his speech!
“I went to Arkie,” said the boy, “but she couldn’t help me. I can’t make sense of this! I wouldn’t care if it wasn’t a story.”
He had an old folio under one arm, with a finger of the other hand in its leaves.
“It is a curious taste for a child!” said the youth, turning to Donal, in whom he had recognized the peasant-scholar: “this little brother of mine reads all the dull old romances he can lay his hands on.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Donal, “they are the only fictions within his reach! Could you not turn him loose upon sir Walter Scott?”
“A good suggestion!” he answered, casting a keen glance at Donal.
“Will you let me look at the passage?” said Donal to the boy, holding out his hand.
The boy opened the book, and gave it him. On the top of the page Donal read, “The Countess of Pembroke’s Arcadia.” He had read of the book, but had never seen it.
“That’s a grand book!” he said.