ightful as it was uncommon to find so much
talent united with so much solidity, and so on." Once on the theme of
her own merits, mademoiselle was fluent.

Cradled at last in blissful self-complacency, she took her knitting, and
sat down tranquil. Drawn curtains, a clear fire, a softly-shining lamp,
gave now to the little parlour its best, its evening charm. It is
probable that the three there present felt this charm. They all looked
happy.

"What shall we do now, Caroline?" asked Mr. Moore, returning to his seat
beside his cousin.

"What shall we do, Robert?" repeated she playfully. "You decide."

"Not play at chess?"

"No."

"Nor draughts, nor backgammon?"

"No, no; we both hate silent games that only keep one's hands employed,
don't we?"

"I believe we do. Then shall we talk scandal?"

"About whom? Are we sufficiently interested in anybody to take a
pleasure in pulling their character to pieces?"

"A question that comes to the point. For my part, unamiable as it
sounds, I must say no."

"And I too. But it is strange, though we want no third--fourth, I mean
(she hastily and with contrition glanced at Hortense), living person
among us--so selfish we are in our happiness--though we don't want to
think of the present existing world, it would be pleasant to go back to
the past, to hear people that have slept for generations in graves that
are perhaps no longer graves now, but gardens and fields, speak to us
and tell us their thoughts, and impart their ideas."

"Who shall be the speaker? What language shall he utter? French?"

"Your French forefathers don't speak so sweetly, nor so solemnly, nor so
impressively as your English ancestors, Robert. To-night you shall be
entirely English. You shall read an English book."

"An old English book?"

"Yes, an old English book--one that you like; and I will choose a part
of it that is toned quite in harmony with something in you. It shall
waken your nature, fill your mind with music; it shall pass like a
skilful hand over your heart, and make its strings sound. Your heart is
a lyre, Robert; but the lot of your life has not been a minstrel to
sweep it, and it is often silent. Let glorious William come near and
touch it. You will see how he will draw the English power and melody out
of its chords."

"I must read Shakespeare?"

"You must have his spirit before you; you must hear his voice with your
mind's ear; you must take some of his soul into yours."

"With a