“Oh, parodies are-—are horrid,” said Mysie.

“Many people feel them so,” said Gillian, “but to others I think they are almost a proof of love, that they can make sport with what they admire so much.”

“Then,” said Mysie, “there’s Dolores’ Eruption!”

“What a nice subject,” laughed Gillian.  “However, it will do beautifully, being the description of the pink terraces of that place with the tremendous name in New Zealand.”

“Were you there?” cried Anna.

“Yes.  I always wonder how she can look the same after such adventures,” said Mysie.

“You know it is much the same as my father’s paper in the Scientific World,” said Dolores.

“Nobody over reads that, so it won’t signify,” was the uncomplimentary verdict.

“And,” added Mysie, “Mr. Brownlow would do a history of Rockquay, and that would be worth having.”

“Oh yes, the dear ghost and all!” cried Valetta.

The acclamation was general, for the Reverend Armine Brownlow was the cynosure curate of the lady Church-helpers, and Mysie produced as a precious loan, to show what could be done, the volume containing the choicest morceaux of the family magazine of his youth, the Traveller’s Joy, in white parchment binding adorned with clematis, and emblazoned with the Evelyn arms on one side, the Brownlow on the other, and full of photographs and reproductions of drawings.

“Much too costly,” said the prudent.

“It was not for sale,” said Mysie, obviously uneasy while it was being handed round.

“Half-a-crown should be our outside price,” said Gillian.

“Or a shilling without photographs, half-a-crown with,” was added.

“Shall I ask Uncle Lance what can be done for how much?” asked Anna, and this was accepted with acclamation, but, as Gillian observed, they had yet got no further than Dolores’ Eruption and the unwritten history.

“There are lots of stories,” said Kitty Varley; “the one about Bayard and all the knights in Italy.”

“The one,” said Gillian, “where Padua got into the kingdom of Naples, and the lady of the house lighted a lucifer match, besides the horse who drained a goblet of red wine.”

“You know that was only the pronouns,” suggested the author.

“Then there’s another,” added Valetta, “called Monrepos-—such a beauty, when the husband was wounded, and died at his wife’s feet just as the sun gilded the tops of the pines, and she died when the moon set, and the little daughter went in and was found dead at their feet.”

“No, no, Val,” said Gillian.  “Here is a story that Bessie has sent us-—really worth having.”

“Mesa!  Oh, of course,” was the acclamation.

“And here’s a little thing of mine,” Gillian added modestly, “about the development of the brain.”

At this there was a shout.

“A little thing!  Isn’t it on the differential calculus?”