pain and pleasure have of sharpening each other's powers.
Betty took in with an intensity of perception all the riches of the
Abbey that she was capable of understanding; and her capacity in that
way was far beyond the common. She never in her life had been quicker
of appreciation. The taste of beauty and the delight of curiosity were
at times exquisite; never failing to meet and heighten that underlying
pain which had so moved her whole nature to sentient life. For the
commonplace and the indifferent she had to-day no toleration at all;
they were regarded with impatient loathing. Accordingly, the progress
round the Poets' corner, which Mrs. Dallas would make slowly, was to
Betty almost intolerable. She must go as the rest went, but she went
making silent protest.

'You do not care for the poets, Miss Betty,' remarked Mr. Dallas
jocosely.

'I see here very few names of poets that I care about,' she responded.
'To judge by the rest, I should say it was about as much of an honour
to be left out of Westminster Abbey as to be put in.'

'Fie, fie, Miss Betty! what heresy is here! Westminster Abbey! why, it
is the one last desire of ambition.'

'I am beginning to think ambition is rather an empty thing, sir.'

'See, here is Butler. Don't you read _Hudibras?_'

'No, sir.'

'You should. It's very clever. Then here is Spenser, next to him. You
are devoted to _The Faerie Queene_, of course!'

'I never read it.'

'You might do worse,' remarked Pitt, who was just before them with his
mother.

'Does anybody read Spenser now?'

'It is a poor sign for the world if they do not.'

'One cannot read everything,' said Betty. 'I read Shakspeare; I am glad
to see _his_ monument.'

It was a relief to pass on at last from the crowd of literary folk into
the nobler parts of the Abbey; and yet, as the impression of its
wonderful beauty and solemn majesty first fully came upon Miss Frere,
it was oddly accompanied by an instant jealous pang: 'He will bring
somebody else here some day, who will come as often as she likes, be at
home here, and enjoy the Abbey as if it were her own property.' And
Betty wished she had never come; and in the same inconsistent breath
was exceedingly rejoiced that she had come. Yes, she would take all of
the beauty in that she could; take it and keep it in her memory for
ever; taste it while she had it, and live on the after-taste for the
rest of her life. But the taste of it was at the moment sharp wit