"We don't see you often any more, Bertram," her father said to me one day.
"No," I stammered. "I'm—"
"Busy studying, I suppose," he said.
"Yes, sir; and ball-games," I replied.
"How do you get on with your Latin?" he inquired, feebly.
"Ah," he said, but without a trace of the old vigor the classics had been wont to rouse in him. "That's good—won'erful writer—up—"
He was pointing with his bony fore-finger.
"Yes?" I answered, wondering what he meant to say. He roused himself, and pointed again over my shoulder.
"Up there—on the—s'elf."