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 as ardently, and as faithfully, as you might expect from innocent young hearts. His slight accomplishments were the standard of all perfection; his sayings were the soul of all good fellowship; and his opinion, the guide in any crisis which occurred in the monotonous existence of the little commonwealth. And time flew gaily on.

One winter evening, as Vivian, with some of his particular cronies, was standing round the school-room fire, they began, as all schoolboys do when it grows rather dark, and they grow rather sentimental—to talk of.

"Twelve weeks more," said Augustus Etherege—"twelve weeks more, and we are free! The glorious day should be celebrated."

"A feast, a feast!" exclaimed Poynings.

"A feast is but the work of a night," said Vivian Grey: "something more stirring for me! What say you to private theatricals?"

The proposition was, of course, received with