e delights in describing murderers. But in the other
kind of poetry the writer does not put himself into other existences, he
expresses his own joys and sorrows, his own individual heart and mind.
If he could not hurt a fly, he certainly could not make himself at home
in the cruel heart of a murderer. There, Mr. Chillingly, that is the
difference between one kind of poetry and another."

"Very true," said Kenelm, amused by the girl's critical definitions.
"The difference between dramatic poetry and lyrical. But may I ask what
that definition has to do with the subject into which you so suddenly
introduced it?"

"Much; for when Lion was explaining this to my aunt, he said, 'A perfect
woman is a poem; but she can never be a poem of the one kind, never can
make herself at home in the hearts with which she has no connection,
never feel any sympathy with crime and evil; she must be a poem of the
other kind, weaving out poetry from her own thoughts and fancies.' And,
turning to me, he said, smiling, 'That is the poem I wish Lily to be.
Too many dry books would only spoil the poem.' And you now see why I am
so ignorant, and so unlike other girls, and why Mr. and Mrs. Emlyn look
down upon me."

"You wrong at least Mr. Emlyn, for it was he who first said to me, 'Lily
Mordaunt is a poem.'"

"Did he? I shall love him for that. How pleased Lion will be!"

"Mr. Melville seems to have an extraordinary influence over your mind,"
said Kenelm, with a jealous pang.

"Of course. I have neither father nor mother: Lion has been both to
me. Aunty has often said, 'You cannot be too grateful to your guardian;
without him I should have no home to shelter you, no bread to give you.'
He never said that: he would be very angry with aunty if he knew she had
said it. When he does not call me Fairy he calls me Princess. I would
not displease him for the world."

"He is very much older than you; old enough to be your father, I hear."

"I dare say. But if he were twice as old I could not love him better."

Kenelm smiled: the jealousy was gone. Certainly not thus could any girl,
even Lily, speak of one with whom, however she might love him, she was
likely to fall in love.

Lily now rose up, rather slowly and wearily. "It is time to go home:
aunty will be wondering what keeps me away,--come."

They took their way towards the bridge opposite to Cromwell Lodge.

It was not for some minutes that either broke silence. Lily was the
first to do s