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 ‘What nonsense you are talking!’ exclaimed Primrose.

With idle chat of this kind, the party had already begun to descend the hill, and were now within the shadow of the woods. Primrose gathered some mountain-laurel, the leaf of which, though of last year’s growth, was still as verdant and elastic as if the frost and thaw had not alternately tried their force upon its texture. Of these twigs of laurel she twined a wreath, and took off the student’s cap, in order to place it on his brow.

‘Nobody else is likely to crown you for your stories,’ observed saucy Primrose, ‘so take this from me.’

‘Do not be too sure,’ answered Eustace, looking really like a youthful poet, with the laurel among his glossy curls, ‘that I shall not win other wreaths by these wonderful and admirable stories. I mean to spend all my leisure, during the rest of the vacation, and throughout the summer term at college, in writing them out for the press. Mr. J. T. Fields (with whom I became acquainted when he was in Berkshire, last summer, and who is a poet, as well as a publisher) will see their uncommon merit at a glance. He will get them illustrated, I hope, by Billings, and will bring them before the world under the very best of auspices, through the eminent house of In about five months from this moment, I make no doubt of being reckoned among the lights of the age!’

‘Poor boy!’ said Primrose, half aside. ‘What a disappointment awaits him!’

Descending a little lower, Bruin began to bark, and was answered by the graver bow-wow of the respectable Ben. They soon saw the good old dog, keeping careful watch over Dandelion, Sweet Fern, Cowslip, and