thanks, sir; and I
suppose I must leave off."

"I thought that I heard a voice," said Frank, growing bold with fear
that he should know no more, for the other was closing his book with
great care, and committing it to a pouch buckled over his shoulder; "and
I fear that I broke in upon a pleasant moment. Perhaps I should have
pleased you better if I had left this hat to drown."

"I seem ungrateful," the stranger answered, with a sweet but melancholy
smile, as he donned his hat and then lifted it gracefully to salute its
rescuer; "but it is only because I have been carried far away from all
thoughts of self, by the power of a much larger mind. Such a thing may
have occurred to you, sir, though it happens very seldom in one life. If
so, you will know how to forgive me."

"I scarcely dare ask--or rather I would say"--stammered the anxious
poet--"that I cannot expect you to tell me the name of the fortunate
writer who has moved you so."

"Would to Heaven that I could!" exclaimed the other. "But this great
poet has withheld his name--all great poets are always modest--but it
cannot long remain unknown. Such grandeur of conception and force of
language, combined with such gifts of melody, must produce universal
demand to know the name of this benefactor. I cannot express myself as I
would desire, because I have been brought up in France, where literature
is so different, and people judge a work more liberally, without
recourse to politics. This is a new work, only out last week; and a
friend of mine, a very fine judge of literature, was so enchanted
with it that he bought a score of copies at once, and as my good stars
prevailed, he sent me one. You are welcome to see it, sir. It is unknown
in these parts; but will soon be known all over Europe, unless these
cruel wars retard it."

With a face of deep gravity, Caryl Carne put into Frank Darling's hand
a copy of his own book, quite young, but already scored with many loving
marks of admiration and keen sympathy. Frank took it, and reddened with
warm delight.

"You may not understand it at first," said the other; "though I beg your
pardon for saying that. What I mean is, that I can well suppose that
an Englishman, though a good judge in general, would probably have his
judgment darkened by insular prejudices, and the petty feeling which
calls itself patriotism, and condemns whatever is nobler and larger than
itself. My friend tells me that the critics have begun to vent