feeling, because there were no windows open and so little fresh air.

"What are you about, little boy?" she asked.

"I am learning my verb," he said; "moneo, mones, monet."

Lucy waited no longer, but moved off to another desk. "And what are
you doing?"

"I am writing my analysis."

Lucy did not know what an analysis was, so she went a little further.
"What are you doing here?" she said timidly, for these were somewhat
bigger boys.

"We are writing an essay on the individuality of self."

That was enough to frighten any one away, and Lucy betook herself to
some quite little boys, with fat rosy faces and light hair. "Are
you busy, too?"

"Oh, yes; we are learning the chief cities of the Fatherland."

Lucy felt like the little boy in the fable, who could not get either
the dog, or the bird, or the bee, to play with him.

"When do you play?" she asked.

"We have an hour's interval after dinner, and another at supper-time,
but then we prepare our work for the morrow," said one of the boys,