the help of others.  Do you think Titian would have helped the world better by denying himself, and not painting; or Casella by denying himself, and not singing!  The real virtue is to be ready to sing the moment people ask us; as he was, even in purgatory.  The very word “virtue” means not “conduct” but “strength,” vital energy in the heart.  Were not you reading about that group of words beginning with V,—­vital, virtuous, vigorous, and so on,—­in Max Muller, the other day, Sibyl?  Can’t you tell the others about it?

Sibyl.  No, I can’t; will you tell us, please?

L. Not now, it is too late.  Come to me some idle time to-morrow, and I’ll tell you about it, if all’s well.  But the gist of it is, children, that you should at least know two Latin words; recollect that “mors” means death and delaying; and “vita” means life and growing:  and try always, not to mortify yourselves, but to vivify yourselves.

Violet.  But, then, are we not to mortify our earthly affections? and surely we are to sacrifice ourselves, at least in God’s service, if not in man’s?

L. Really, Violet, we are getting too serious.  I’ve given you enough ethics for one talk, I think!  Do let us have a little play.  Lily, what were you so busy about, at the ant-hill in the wood, this morning?

Lily.  Oh, it was the ants who were busy, not I; I was only trying to help them a little.

L. And they wouldn’t be helped, I suppose?

Lily.  No, indeed.  I can’t think why ants are always so tiresome, when one tries to help them!  They were carrying bits of stick, as fast as they could, through a piece of grass; and pulling and pushing, so hard; and tumbling over and over,—­it made one quite pity them; so I took some of the bits of stick, and carried them forward a little, where I thought they wanted to put them; but instead of being pleased, they left them directly, and ran about looking quite angry and frightened; and at last ever so many of them got up my sleeves, and bit me all over, and I had to come away.

L. I couldn’t think what you were about.  I saw your French grammar lying on the grass behind you, and thought perhaps you had gone to ask the ants to hear you a French verb.

Isabel.  Ah! but you didn’t, though!

L. Why not, Isabel?  I knew, well enough, Lily couldn’t learn that verb by herself.

Isabel.  No; but the ants couldn’t help her.

L. Are you sure the ants could not have helped you, Lily?

Lily (thinking).  I ought to have learned something from them, perhaps.

L. But none of them left their sticks to help you through the irregular verb?

Lily.  No, indeed. (Laughing, with some others.)

L. What are you laughing at, children?  I cannot see why the ants should not have left their tasks to help Lily in hers,—­since here is Violet thinking she ought to leave her tasks, to help God in his.  Perhaps, however, she takes Lily’s more modest view, and thinks only that “He ought to learn something from her.”