fame. Such was my uneventful career at school.

We were all at home for the summer holidays. We were seated at
breakfast. What a rattle of tongues, and knives, and forks, and cups,
and saucers there was going on. What vast slices of bread and butter
were disappearing within our well practised jaws. Various cries
proceeded from each side of the table. "Bertha, another cup of tea;"
"Bertha, some more milk;" "Bertha, you haven't given me sugar enough by
half;" "Bertha, I like strong tea; no wish-wash for me."

Bertha was our oldest sister and tea-maker general. She had no sinecure
office of it; but, in spite often of the most remarkable demands, she
dispensed the beverage with the most perfect justice and good humour.
Not unsatisfactory were the visits paid to the sideboard, covered as it
was with brawn, and ham, and tongue, and a piece of cold beef, and such
like substantial fare.

Suddenly the tenor of our conversation was turned by the entrance of the
servant with the post-bag. The elders were silent for a few minutes,--
our father and mother and Bertha, and Cedric, who was at home from
college. Our mother had a large circle of correspondents, and seldom a
post arrived without a letter for her. Our father had fewer; but this
morning he received one, in a large official-looking cover, which
absorbed his attention. Still the clatter of tongues went on among us
younger ones. Our father and mother had grown so accustomed to it,
that, as the miller awakes when his mill stops, so they would have
looked up to ascertain what was the matter had we been silent.

"Which of you would like to become a midshipman?" asked our father
looking up suddenly.

The question had an effect rarely produced in the family. We were all
silent. Our mother put down her letters, and her fond eyes glanced
round on our faces. Her countenance was unusually grave.

Again my father looked at the document in his hand. "Captain Collyer
says he should not be more than fourteen. Marmaduke, that is your age.
What do you say on the subject?" said my father.

"Joliffe, what is it all about?" asked my mother, with a slight
trepidation in her voice.

"I forgot that I had not read the letter. It is rather long. It is
from my old friend, Dick Collyer, and a better fellow does not breathe.
The tenor of it is that he has got command of a fine frigate, the Doris,
fitting with all despatch for sea, and that he will take one of our boys
as a