“What are you going to take?”
“First year Latin and Algebra and Senior Collegiate Literature,” replied Cathalina, looking at a paper in her father’s handwriting to make sure. “Papa thinks that I have had enough French and German, because I can speak them and read the literature myself any time. He wants me to catch up in Latin and Mathematics as soon as possible.”
“Well, you are mixed! You will recite with the infants in Latin and Math and with the ‘young ladies’ in Literature. I’m a regular Junior Academy, of course, because I’ve had two years of high school. But that makes you only—five, ten, thirteen hours.”
“What are ‘hours’?”
“Hours of recitation, you know. Latin recites every day, so that’s five hours a week,—Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday.”
“I see; but why do you say ‘only’? My father said that if I had too much work I could drop Literature.”
“Why, thirteen hours is nothing!”
“Well, if you had never been to school,” began Cathalina, looking almost ready to cry, “you’d think it was enough.”
Hilary’s warm heart was sorry, though she had thought it rather “airy” for Cathalina to mention speaking French and German. She spoke quickly, “O, don’t feel bad, Cathalina, I did not mean to be horrid. I suppose your father knows best. I certainly wish I could speak some foreign languages. Let’s trade. If I get ‘stuck’ in French you help me, and if you should have any trouble in algebra, maybe I can help you out.”
“All right, it’s a bargain!” and Cathalina stretched out a little hand browned by the sun of the summer by the shore.