to say; and you
can see Mrs. Barclay is one of those. And I like those people. There is
a charm about them."

"Don't you always know what's right to do or say, with the Bible before
you?"

"O grandmother, but I mean in little things; little words and ways, and
tones of voice even. It isn't like Shampuashuh people."

"Well, _we_'re Shampuashuh folks," said Charity. "I hope you won't set
up for nothin' else, Lois. I guess your head got turned a bit, with
goin' round the world. But I wish I knew what makes her look so sober!"

"She has lost her husband."

"Other folks have lost their husbands, and a good many of 'em have
found another. Don't be ridiculous, Lois!"

The first bait that took, in the shape of books, was Scott's "Lady of
the Lake." Lois opened it one day, was caught, begged to be allowed to
read it; and from that time had it in her hand whenever her hand was
free to hold it. She read it aloud, sometimes, to her grandmother, who
listened with a half shake of her head, but allowed it was pretty.
Charity was less easy to bribe with sweet sounds.

"What on earth is the use of that?" she demanded one day, when she had
stood still for ten minutes in her way through the room, to hear the
account of Fitz James's adventure in the wood with Roderick Dhu.

"Don't you like it?" said Lois.

"Don't make head or tail of it. And there sits Madge with her mouth
open, as if it was something to eat; and Lois's cheeks are as pink as
if she expected the people to step out and walk in. Mother, do you like
all that stuff?"

"It is _poetry_, Charity," cried Lois.

"What's the use o' poetry? can you tell me? It seems to me nonsense for
a man to write in that way. If he has got something to say, why don't
he _say_ it, and be done with it?"

"He does say it, in a most beautiful way."

"It'd be a queer way of doing business!"

"It is _not_ business," said Lois, laughing. "Charity, will you not
understand? It is _poetry_."

"What is poetry?"

But alas! Charity had asked what nobody could answer, and she had the
field in triumph.

"It is just a jingle-jangle, and what I call nonsense. Mother, ain't
that what you would say is a waste of time?"

"I don't know, my dear," said Mrs. Armadale doubtfully, applying her
knitting needle to the back of her ear.

"It isn't nonsense; it is delightful!" said Madge indignantly.

"You want me to go on, grandmother, don't you?" said Lois. "We want to
know about the fight, when the