"Tortures shan't draw it from me when I know what it is," said he, with one of his comical looks.
In high glee, Ellen ran for the pieces of Bristol board which were to form the backs of the needlebook, and brought them to the library; and explained how room was to be left in the middle of each for a painting, a rose on one, a butterfly on the other; the writing to be as elegant as possible, above, beneath, and roundabout, as the fancy of the writer should choose.
"Well, what is to be inscribed on this most original of needlebooks?" said John, as he carefully mended his pen.
"Stop!" said Ellen "I'll tell you in a minute. On this one, the front, you know, is to go, 'To my dear mother, many happy New Years;' and on this side, 'From her dear little daughter, Ellen Chauncey.' You know," she added, "Mrs. Chauncey isn't to know anything about it till New Year's day; nor anybody else."
"Trust me," said John. "If I am asked any questions, they shall find me as obscure as an oracle."
"What is an oracle, Sir?"
"Why," said John, smiling "this pen won't do yet the old heathens believed there were certain spots on earth to which some of their gods had more favour than to others, and where they would permit mortals to come nearer to them, and would even deign to answer their questions."
"And did they?" said Ellen.
"Did they what?"
"Did they answer their questions?"