s chair, and
clapped his hands together joyfully.

'There it is!' cried He aloud: 'Now they are charming!'

His transports were interrupted by a laugh from the Marquis, who
suspected the nature of his employment.

'What is so charming, Theodore?'

The Youth started, and looked round. He blushed, ran to the Table,
seized the paper on which He had been writing, and concealed it in
confusion.

'Oh! my Lord, I knew not that you were so near me. Can I be of use to
you? Lucas is already gone to bed.'

'I shall follow his example when I have given my opinion of your
verses.'

'My verses, my Lord?'

'Nay, I am sure that you have been writing some, for nothing else could
have kept you awake till this time of the morning. Where are they,
Theodore? I shall like to see your composition.'

Theodore's cheeks glowed with still deeper crimson: He longed to show
his poetry, but first chose to be pressed for it.

'Indeed, my Lord, they are not worthy your attention.'

'Not these verses, which you just now declared to be so charming?

Come, come, let me see whether our opinions are the same. I promise
that you shall find in me an indulgent Critic.'

The Boy produced his paper with seeming reluctance; but the
satisfaction which sparkled in his dark expressive eyes betrayed the
vanity of his little bosom. The Marquis smiled while He observed the
emotions of an heart as yet but little skilled in veiling its
sentiments. He seated himself upon a Sopha: Theodore, while Hope and
fear contended on his anxious countenance, waited with inquietude for
his Master's decision, while the Marquis read the following lines.

LOVE AND AGE

The night was dark; The wind blew cold;
Anacreon, grown morose and old,
Sat by his fire, and fed the chearful flame:
Sudden the Cottage-door expands,
And lo! before him Cupid stands,
Casts round a friendly glance, and greets him by his name.

'What is it Thou?' the startled Sire
In sullen tone exclaimed, while ire
With crimson flushed his pale and wrinkled cheek:
'Wouldst Thou again with amorous rage
Inflame my bosom? Steeled by age,
Vain Boy, to pierce my breast thine arrows are too weak.

'What seek You in this desart drear?
No smiles or sports inhabit here;
Ne'er did these vallies witness dalliance sweet:
Eternal winter binds the plains;
Age in my house despotic reigns,
My Garden boasts no flower, my bosom boasts no heat.

'Begone,