im to render such tasks pleasant for the busy
hand and brain that must devise and create and make much out of little
for economy's sake; and this Bertrand did to Mary's complete
satisfaction.

Evenings like these were Betty's school, and they seemed all the
schooling she was likely to get, for the family funds were barely
sufficient to cover the expenses of one child at a time. But, as Mary
said, "It's not so bad for Betty to be kept at home, for she will read
and study, anyway, because she likes it, and it won't hurt her to
learn to be practical as well;" and no doubt Mary was right.

Bertrand was himself a poet in his appreciation and fineness of
choice, and he read for Mary with all the effectiveness and warmth of
color that he would put into a recitation for a large audience,
carried on solely by his one sympathetic listener and his love for
what he read; while Betty, in her corner close to the lamp behind her
father's chair, listened unnoticed, with eager soul, rapt and
uplifted.

As Bertrand read he commented. "These men who are writing like this
are doing for this country what the Lake Poets did for England. They
are making true literature for the nation, and saving it from
banality. They are going to live. They will be classed some day with
Wordsworth and all the rest of the best. Hear this from James Russell
Lowell. It's about a violin, and is called 'In the Twilight.' It's
worthy of Shelley." And Bertrand read the poem through, while Mary
let her knitting fall in her lap and listened. He loved to see her
listen in that way.

"Read again the verse that begins: 'O my life.' I seem to like it
best." And he read it over:--

"O my life, have we not had seasons
That only said, Live and rejoice?
That asked not for causes and reasons,
But made us all feeling and voice?
When we went with the winds in their blowing,
When Nature and we were peers,
And we seemed to share in the flowing
Of the inexhaustible years?
Have we not from the earth drawn juices
Too fine for earth's sordid uses?
Have I heard, have I seen
All I feel, all I know?
Doth my heart overween?
Or could it have been
Long ago?"

"And the next, Bertrand. I love to hear them over again." And he
read:--