ary schooling of
girls, but had somehow missed the true education. Her acquirements
were a surface gloss merely, Enfield knew. She had never been touched
by the sacred fire. She could not tell a good book from a poor one, he
had said to Loramer. But he had taken her, and his heart yearned
toward the companion of his choice. Yet there could be no true
companionship where there was no common view or interest. It seemed to
him that she had never learned the right use of her eyes, that the few
and little things close to her shut out the sight of the great and
innumerable company beyond, as if one reared among city streets should
never see either the earth or the sky. He would teach her to use them,
would show her the awe and beauty of the world. They would read
together; he would find a new charm and inspiration in his loved
books; she would catch his enthusiasm and insensibly learn the delight
and true cultivation of all that is great and good.

He found no chance to begin for a long time. She was very busy and
seemed very happy. There was the house to set in order, his friends
and hers to entertain; she was learning to ride. But by and by came
winter and shut them in more alone. He got out his books and proposed
their reading together, and was pleased to find she welcomed the plan.
She read with a clear intonation and a careful regard for pointing and
pronunciation; but somehow as he listened to her the strength and
flavor of his favorite authors escaped between the words. Her idea of
reading poetry seemed to be that it should sound exactly like prose.
She had apparently no conception of anything like rhythm, and seemed
to think it a special grace to avoid any slightest pause at the end of
a line when it could be done; so that the mind was kept on a strain to
catch at the rhyme and measure. He said nothing, but one night took
the book himself. He read things to her that had made his heart throb
and dimmed his eyes, or filled him with delightful laughter, and they
wearied or puzzled her, and seemed cold and sterile to himself. He
began to lose courage, but he persevered. One night he read to her in
Ruskin's eloquent prose, and came to that powerful and impassioned, if
somewhat mystical, interpretation of the Laureate's noble song:

"Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abro