ornton recommends the
book, Flo can have it. I know nothing of books, sir, and care less; but
if you say it is a good book, that is sufficient."

"Oh, quite so indeed," exclaimed Mrs. Delamere, "if Mr. Thornton
recommends the book. My daughter Florence has too much imagination, dear
child, and we have to be very careful. May I inquire the name of the
work which you recommend?"

She called everything a work.

"Oh, only _Two Years Ago_, by Kingsley," said Thornton.

"Ah!" said Mrs. Delamere, "a delightful writer. The Rev. Charles
Kingsley was a man whom I unfeignedly admire. Perhaps I might not
altogether approve of his writings for young persons, but for those whose
minds have been matured by a considerable acquaintance with our
literature it is, of course, different. He is a bold and fearless
thinker. He is not fettered and tied down by those barriers which impede
the speculations of other writers."

"Off she goes!" whispered Glenville to me, "broken her knees over the
first metaphor. She will be plunging wildly in the ditch directly, and
never fairly get out of it for about an hour and a half. Let us escape
while we can." We rose and left Mrs. Delamere explaining to Thornton how
darling Florence and dearest Beatrix were all that a fond and
intellectual mother could desire. She was anxious to be thought to be
trembling on the verge of atheism, to which position her highly-gifted
intelligence quite entitled her; while, at the same time, her strong
judgment and moral virtues enabled her to assist in supporting the
orthodox faith. The younger Miss Delamere (Beatrix) was doing one of
those curious pieces of work in which ladies delight, which appear to be
designed for no particular purpose, and which, curiously enough, are
always either a little more or less than half finished. I think she very
seldom spoke. She was positively crushed by that most superior person,
her mother. Flo was gazing abstractedly into the sea, hearing her mother
but not listening, while Thornton was seated a foot or two below her,
gazing up into her deep-blue eyes, shaded by her large hat and dark hair,
as happy and deluded as a lunatic who thinks himself monarch of the
world.

The Squire said he would join us. I expect his wife rather bored the old
gentleman. We all sauntered up to the little crush of people who were
listening (or not listening) to the discordant sounds of the German band.
Here we found the whole tribe of Ban