wouldn't he? And get dreaming
about Comanches and tomahawks and Fenimore Cooper, eh?"

For once Dicky scores. The men have grown tired of Mr. Gower's
performance, and hail the interruption with delight. Roger turns on his
side, and laughs aloud. This attention, so unprecedented on his part,
fills Dicky's soul with rapture. He instantly bestows upon his supporter
a smile rich with gratitude; yet perhaps it is not Mr. Browne's wit
alone that has called forth such open manifestation of mirth from Roger.
There is, I think, just the faintest touch of malice in his merriment.

And then the faithless Dulce laughs too; the most musical, ringing
little laugh in the world, but none the less galling for all its
sweetness. It is the last straw. Mr. Gower, suppressing a very natural
inclination, lays the book down gently on the grass beside him (he would
have given anything to be able to fling it far from him), and makes some
casual remark about the excessive beauty of the evening.

And, indeed, it is beautiful; all down the Western slope of the
fir-crowned hill, the fading rays of light still wander, though even now
in the clear heavens the evening star has risen, and is shining calm and
clear as a soul entered on its eternal rest.

"Will you not read us something else?" says Dulce, feeling a little
ashamed of herself.

"Some other time," returns he.

"Dicky rather took the sentiment out of it," says Roger, still
maliciously mirthful. "I hardly think he and the Swan of Avon would be
congenial souls."

"Well, I don't know," says Sir Mark, lazily. "We have been taught that
extremes meet, you see."

"Dicky, how can you stand their impertinence?" asks Dulce, gaily.
"Assert yourself, I entreat you."

"There is such a thing as silent contempt," says Mr. Browne, untouched
by their darts. "There is also a passage somewhere that alludes to an
'unlettered small-knowing soul;' I do not desire to quote it in this
company. Let us return to the immortal Bill."

But they are all laughing still, and in the face of laughter, it is
difficult to get back to tragedy. And so no one encourages Gower to
continue his work, and this, in despite of the fact that the light
growing as it is toward the gloaming, seems in keeping with dismal tales
and softly-mouthed miseries.

Every moment the evening star grows brighter, gaining glory as the day
declines. The mist has died away into the ocean, the breeze has sunk to
slumber, only the song of man