the
unromantic name of the horse that oftenest has the honor of bearing me
when we ride). No one seemed inclined to drive, so Lady Alice and the
Duchess, that had been for some time impatiently stamping, and arching
their pretty necks, evidently impatient to be off, were sent back to
the stables, much amazed, I doubt not, at our capricious conduct; while
we--mamma, Marguerite, and I--sauntered up to the cool pine grove,
accompanied by Arthur, bearing a camp-chair for mamma, and a couple of
wise-looking tomes, in whose society we were to spend the morning.

But I have not yet introduced Arthur. He is neither brother, cousin,
nor _fiance_, but bound to us by almost brotherly ties, having been our
playmate when we were little children; and after the death of his
parents (our eminent historian Richard Hildreth, and his gifted artist
wife), he became mamma's ward, and was our constant companion in Italy
and France. Arthur has come on from Cambridge, where he has just taken
his degree as a lawyer, to make us a visit of some weeks, and we have
had much pleasure talking over with him those poetic days that we
passed together in Florence and Venice.

But _our_ life is never made up of talking and dreaming, delightful
though it may be, and we have a certain amount of reading to do every
day, which we despatch as conscientiously as we do our prayers. There
is no rule, however, limiting the reading to any one person, and Arthur
often relieves us of that duty. I enjoy his reading very much,
especially when one of Plato's "Dialogues" is the lesson of the day,
for into them he throws so much enthusiasm and dramatic force, that
they are quite a revelation to me. I was amused this morning, upon
turning over the leaves of my journal of last winter, to find my first
impressions of the "Dialogues" thus laconically expressed:

"I have to-day commenced to read Plato aloud. I cannot say that I find
him very refreshing as yet; still I try to admire him as much as I
conscientiously can."

I must confess that at first the abstruse subtleties of Socrates and
his brother logicians were too much for my little brain, but now that I
am more familiar with them, I quite delight in following their
arguments. These "Dialogues" remind me of a fugue in musical
composition; only melody is wanting to make the resemblance perfect,
for here, as in the "Well-tempered Harpsichord," one train of thought
is taken up, viewed from every side and in ever