"Well," said Henry, when Emily had finished reading, "that is a beautiful book: it made me so hot when they were all running, my feet felt as if they would run too—they quite shook—I could not keep them quiet."
"And how nicely you kept papa's secret!" said Mrs. Fairchild; "you showed that you were not much more clever than Meeta."
"But then, mamma," replied Henry, "papa's secret was not of so much consequence as Meeta's was."
"Now, mamma," said Emily, "when do you think the day will come for Henry's story?"
Mrs. Fairchild answered:
"Papa will tell us when he can spare an evening."
"My book, I am certain," said Henry, "will be prettier than yours, Emily."
"Why must it be prettier?" asked his mother.
"Because Lucy said it is all about boys; I like boys' stories—there are so few books about boys."