ught of this,
only very lately that I have felt sorrow and shame in the thought that I
am so ignorant of what other girls know, even little Clemmy. And I dare
not say this to Lion when I see him next, lest he should blame himself,
when he only meant to be kind, and used to say, 'I don't want Fairy to
be learned, it is enough for me to think she is happy.' And oh, I was so
happy, till--till of late!"

"Because till of late you only knew yourself as a child. But, now that
you feel the desire of knowledge, childhood is vanishing. Do not vex
yourself. With the mind which nature has bestowed on you, such learning
as may fit you to converse with those dreaded 'grown-up folks' will come
to you very easily and quickly. You will acquire more in a month now
than you would have acquired in a year when you were a child, and
task-work was loathed, not courted. Your aunt is evidently well
instructed, and if I might venture to talk to her about the choice of
books--"

"No, don't do that. Lion would not like it."

"Your guardian would not like you to have the education common to other
young ladies?"

"Lion forbade my aunt to teach me much that I rather wished to learn.
She wanted to do so, but she has given it up at his wish. She only now
teases me with those horrid French verbs, and that I know is a mere
make-belief. Of course on Sunday it is different; then I must not read
anything but the Bible and sermons. I don't care so much for the sermons
as I ought, but I could read the Bible all day, every week-day as well
as Sunday; and it is from the Bible that I learn that I ought to think
less about myself."

Kenelm involuntarily pressed the little hand that lay so innocently on
his arm.

"Do you know the difference between one kind of poetry and another?"
asked Lily, abruptly.

"I am not sure. I ought to know when one kind is good and another kind
is bad. But in that respect I find many people, especially professed
critics, who prefer the poetry which I call bad to the poetry I think
good."

"The difference between one kind of poetry and another, supposing them
both to be good," said Lily, positively, and with an air of triumph, "is
this,--I know, for Lion explained it to me,--in one kind of poetry the
writer throws himself entirely out of his existence, he puts himself
into other existences quite strange to his own. He may be a very good
man, and he writes his best poetry about very wicked men: he would not
hurt a fly, but h