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 kitchen-fire, or curled the maid's hair at Sympson-grove. What made you keep them, Henry?"

"It is not my doing: I should not have thought of it: it never entered my head to suppose copy-books of value. Mr. Moore put them by in the inner drawer of his desk: perhaps he forgot them."

"C'est cela; he forgot them, no doubt," echoed Shirley. "They are extremely well written," she observed, complacently.

"What a giddy girl you were, Shirley, in those days! I remember you so well: a slim, light creature whom, though you were so tall, I could lift off the floor. I see you with your long, countless curls on your shoulders, and your streaming sash. You used to make Mr. Moore lively, that is, at first: I believe you grieved him after a while."

Shirley turned the closely written pages and said nothing. Presently she observed, "That was written one winter afternoon. It was a description of a snow-scene."

"I remember," said Henry; "Mr. Moore, when he read it, cried 'voilà le Français gagné!' He said it was well done. Afterwards you made him draw, in sepia, the landscape you described."

"You have not forgotten then, Hal?"

"Not at all. We were all scolded that day for not coming down to tea when called. I can remember my tutor sitting at his easel, and you standing behind him, holding the candle, and