Babie was really useful as a nurse, and had very little time to comfort them.  And indeed they treated her as childish and trifling for assuring them that neither patient, maid, nor doctor thought the ailment at all serious.  Bobus found some relief in laying the blame on Jock, but when Armine heard the illness ascribed to a long course of anxiety and harass, he was conscience-stricken, as he thought how often his perverse form of resignation had baffled her pleadings and added to her vexations.  Words, impatiently heard at the moment, returned upon him, and compunction took its outward effect in crossness.  It was all that Jock could do by his good-humoured banter and repartee to keep the peace between the other two who, when unchecked by regard to their mother and Babie, seemed bent on discussing everything on which they most disagreed.

Babie was a welcome messenger to Jock at least, when she brought word that mother hoped Armine would attend to Percy Stagg, and would take him the book she sent down for him.  Her will was law in the present state of things, and Armine set forth in dutiful disgust; but he found the lad so really anxious about the lady, and so much brightened and improved, that he began to take an interest in him and promised a fresh lesson with alacrity.

His next step in obedience was to take out his books; but Bobus had no mind for them, and said it was too late.  If Armine had really worked diligently all the autumn, he might have easily entered King’s College, London; but now he had thrown away his chance.

Mr. Ogilvie found him with his books on the table, plunged in utter despondency.  “Your mother is not worse?” he asked in alarm.

“Oh no; she is very comfortable, and the doctor says she may get up to-morrow.”

“Then is it the Greek?” said Mr. Ogilvie, much relieved.

“Yes.  Bobus says my rendering is perfectly ridiculous.”

“Are you preparing for him?”

“No.  He is sick of me, and has no time to attend to me now.”

“Let me see-—”

“Oh!  Mr. Ogilvie,” said Armine, looking up with his ingenuous eyes.  “I don’t deserve it.  Besides, Bobus says it is of no use now.  I’ve wasted too much time ever to get into King’s.”

“I should like to judge of that.  Suppose I examined you-—not now, but to-morrow morning.  Meantime, how do you construe this chorus?  “It is a tough one.”

Armine winked out of his eyes the tears that had risen at the belief that he had really in his wilfulness lost the hope of fulfilling the higher aims of his life, and with a trembling voice translated the passage he had been hammering over.  A word from Mr. Ogilvie gave him the clue, and when that stumbling-block was past, he acquitted himself well enough to warrant a little encouragement.

“Well done, Armine.  We shall make a fair scholar of you, after all.”

“I don’t deserve you should be so kind.  I see now what a fool I have been,” said Armine, his eyes filling again, with tears.