Who shall of these things write the chronicle?
* * * * *
"I never could correct that composition," observed Shirley, as Moore concluded. "Your censor-pencil scored it with condemnatory lines, whose signification I strove vainly to fathom."
She had taken a crayon from the tutor's desk, and was drawing little leaves, fragments of pillars, broken crosses, on the margin of the book.
"French may be half forgotten, but the habits of the French lesson are retained, I see," said Louis. "My books would now, as erst, be unsafe with you. My newly-bound St. Pierre would soon be like my Racine--Miss Keeldar, her mark, traced on every page."
Shirley dropped her crayon as if it burned her fingers.

Who shall of these things write the chronicle?
"I never could correct that composition," observed Shirley, as Moore concluded. "Your censor-pencil scored it with condemnatory lines, which I could not understand."
She had taken a crayon from the tutor's desk, and was drawing little leaves on the margin of the book.
"French may be half forgotten, but the habits of your French lesson are retained, I see," said Louis. "Miss Keeldar, her mark on every page."
Shirley dropped her crayon as if it burned her fingers.
