CHAPTER VIII. THE FOLLY.
There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks
By summer rivers, by whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.-—Marlowe.
"How does my little schoolfellow get on?" asked Mary Ogilvie, when
she had sat down for her first meal with her brother in her summer
holidays.
"Much as Ariel did in the split pine, I fancy."
"For shame, David! I'm afraid you are teaching her to see Sycorax
and Caliban in her neighbours."
"Not I! How should I ever see her! Do you hear from her?"
"Sometimes; and I heard of her from the Actons, who had an immense
regard for her husband, who, they say, was a very superior man."
"It is hardly necessary to be told so."
"They mean to take lodgings somewhere near here this next month, and
see what they can do to cheer her in her present life, which must be
the greatest possible contrast to her former one. Do you wish to set
out on our expedition before August, Davie? I should like you to see
them."
"By all means let us wait for them. Indeed I should not be at
liberty till the last week in July."
"And how go the brains of Kenminster? You look enlivened since last
time I saw you."
"It is the infusion the brains have received. That one woman has
made more difference to the school than I could have done in ten
years.
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