I looked up at Diana, she looked at me, and we smiled.

"Pro qua non metuam mori,

Si parcent animae fata superstiti."

Again I caught her eye.

"Translate!" said the father.

I began, rather stumblingly, you will see, - 'Thracian Chloe rules me, who is learned in sweet music, who can play the cithara; on which account I wish that I might die if -"

Crash! Diana's chair was on its back and she was out of the room.

"Excuse me, she must be ill!" and the old man hobbled after her.

So I was left there with my book in my hand. I would not go, they might have to send for a doctor. I took up the book again: "That was not right, was it?" I thought. '"Pro qua' means, 'for whom,' and not 'on which account'; but I have made worse mistakes than that, and he did not notice it either."

Then I put down the Latin, and took up another book, and waited. Then I put that down and looked at her music, and touched the piano! How slowly the time went! How still the house was! I sat down again and waited; I walked around and waited. I could bear it no longer, but took my hat and left the house.

Next day I received the following note : -

"CAMBRIDGE, January -, 187-."Sir, - How could you have so distorted an innocent Ode of Horace into an insult to me? If your objection to my music is so strong, is there need of your coming to hear it?

"I have the honor to be, sir,

"Your obedient servant,

"DIANA ARCHIBALD."How was that for a sit on, and only because o that miserable slip!

B. M.