still the Father of
Lies insinuated evil into good, pride into wisdom, grossness into glory,
pain into bliss, poison into passion? How the "dreadless Angel" defied,
resisted, and repelled? How again and again he refined the polluted cup,
exalted the debased emotion, rectified the perverted impulse, detected
the lurking venom, baffled the frontless temptation--purified,
justified, watched, and withstood? How, by his patience, by his
strength, by that unutterable excellence he held from God--his
Origin--this faithful Seraph fought for Humanity a good fight through
time; and, when Time's course closed, and Death was encountered at the
end, barring with fleshless arm the portals of Eternity, how Genius
still held close his dying bride, sustained her through the agony of the
passage, bore her triumphant into his own home, Heaven; restored her,
redeemed, to Jehovah, her Maker; and at last, before Angel and
Archangel, crowned her with the crown of Immortality?

Who shall of these things write the chronicle?

* * * * *

"I never could correct that composition," observed Shirley, as Moore
concluded. "Your censor-pencil scored it with condemnatory lines, whose
signification I strove vainly to fathom."

She had taken a crayon from the tutor's desk, and was drawing little
leaves, fragments of pillars, broken crosses, on the margin of the book.

"French may be half forgotten, but the habits of the French lesson are
retained, I see," said Louis. "My books would now, as erst, be unsafe
with you. My newly-bound St. Pierre would soon be like my Racine--Miss
Keeldar, her mark, traced on every page."

Shirley dropped her crayon as if it burned her fingers.

"Tell me what were the faults of that _devoir_?" she asked. "Were they
grammatical errors, or did you object to the substance?"

"I never said that the lines I drew were indications of faults at all.
You would have it that such was the case, and I refrained from
contradiction."

"What else did they denote?"

"No matter now."

"Mr. Moore," cried Henry, "make Shirley repeat some of the pieces she
used to say so well by heart."

"If I ask for any, it will be 'Le Cheval Dompte,'" said Moore, trimming
with his penknife the pencil Miss Keeldar had worn to a stump.

She turned aside her head; the neck, the clear cheek, forsaken by their
natural veil, were seen to flush warm.

"Ah! she has not forgotten, you see, sir," said Henry, exultant. "She