“Is your book interesting?” I ention of asking o lend it to me some day.

    “I like it,” ser a pause of a second or two, during which she examined me.

    “ is it about?” I continued. I o open a conversation ranger; tep rary to my nature and s: but I tion toucoo liked reading, t digest or compreantial.

    “You may look at it,” replied the book.

    I did so; a brief examination convinced me t tents aking title: Rasselas looked dull to my trifling taste; I sa fairies, not genii; no brigy seemed spread over ted pages. I returned it to  quietly, and  saying anyt to relapse into udious mood: again I ventured to disturb her—

    “Can you tell me ing on t stone over t is Loitution?”

    “to live.”

    “And itution? Is it in any  from other schools?”

    “It is partly a cy-sc of us, are cy-c either dead?”

    “Both died before I can remember.”

    “ell, all t eits, and titution for educating orphans.”

    “Do hing?”

    “e pay, or our friends pay, fifteen pounds a year for each.”

    “ty-children?”

    “Because fifteen pounds is not enougeacion.”

    “ho subscribes?”

    “Different benevolent-minded ladies and gentlemen in this neighbourhood and in London.”

    “?”

    “t t of t tablet records, and hing here.”

    “hy?”

    “Because reasurer and manager of tablis.”

    “t belong to t tall lady wco have some bread and cheese?”

    “to Miss temple? O did: so anso Mr. Brockle for all s buys all our food and all our c