"In the evening. Tea is over by half-past five, and we three—William, I, and Gar—turn at once to our lessons. In about two hours mamma joins us, and we work with her about two hours more. Of course we have different nights for different studies, Latin every night, Greek nearly every night, Euclid twice a week, algebra twice a week, and so on. And the lessons we do with mamma are portioned out; some one night, some another."
"You must be very persevering boys," cried Mr. Glenn. "Do you never catch yourselves looking off to play; to talk and laugh?"
"No, sir, never. We have got into the habit of sticking to our lessons; mamma brought us into it. And then, we are anxious to get on: half the battle lies in that."
"I think it does. Philip, my boy, here's a lesson for you, and for all other lazy scapegraces."
Philip shrugged his shoulders, with a laugh. "Papa, I don't see any good in working so hard."
"Your friend Frank does."
"We are obliged to work, sir," said Frank, candidly. "We have no money, and it is only by education that we can hope to get on. Mamma thinks it may turn out all for the best. She says that boys who expect money very often rely upon it and not upon themselves. She would rather turn us out into the world with our talents cultivated and a will to use them, than with a fortune apiece. There's not a parable in the Bible mamma is fonder of reading to us than that of the ten talents."
"No fortune!" repeated Mr. Glenn in a dreamy tone.
"Not a penny; mamma has to work to keep us," returned Frank, making the avowal as freely as though he had proclaimed that his mother was lady-in-waiting to the Queen, and he one of her pages. Jane had contrived to convince them that in poverty itself there lay no shame or stigma; but a great deal in paltry attempts to conceal it.
"Frank," said Mr. Glenn, "I was thinking that you must possess a fortune in your mother."