away, and I don't get on very fast alone, for I've no one to correct my pronunciation."
"Try a little now; here is Schiller's 'Mary Stuart,' and a tutor who loves to teach," and Mr. Brooke laid his book on her lap, with an inviting smile.
"It's so hard, I'm afraid to try," said Meg, grateful, but bashful in the presence of the accomplished young lady beside her.
"I'll read a bit, to encourage you;" and Miss Kate read one of the most beautiful passages, in a perfectly correct, but perfectly expressionless, manner.
Mr Brooke made no comment, as she returned the book to Meg, who said, innocently,—
"I thought it was poetry."
"Some of it is; try this passage."
There was a queer smile about Mr. Brooke's mouth, as he opened at poor Mary's lament.
Meg, obediently following the long grass-blade which her new tutor used to point with, read, slowly and timidly, unconsciously making poetry of the hard words, by the soft intonation of her musical voice. Down the page went the green guide, and presently, forgetting her listener in the beauty of the sad scene, Meg read as if alone, giving a little touch of tragedy to the words of the unhappy queen. If she had seen the brown eyes then, she would have stopped short; but she never looked up, and the lesson was not spoilt for her.
"Very well, indeed!" said Mr. Brooke, as she paused, quite ignoring her many mistakes, and looking as if he did, indeed, "love to teach."
Miss Kate put up her glass, and, having taken a
