although we have lived precisely the
same number of years, and I may be said to have lived so much longer
than you, if we count time by sorrows that make long the days,--though
we have both passed our twenty-first anniversary, you, as an American,
have obtained your majority, and are a free agent, while the law of
France renders me still a minor for four years? You know I cannot stir
without my father's consent; and, of course, that is unattainable."

"Unattainable if you choose to imagine that it is, and will not seek for
it," answered Ronald, rebukingly. "The wisest poet that ever penned his
inspiration, says,--

'Our doubts are traitors
And make us lose the good we oft might win
By fearing to attempt!'

Do not let your traitorous doubts frighten you from the trial."

Maurice smiled away his rising irritability, and replied, "I think,
Ronald, your mind is so full of poetic arrows that one could not take a
step, or lift a finger, or draw a breath, without your being able to hit
him with a verse."

"A verse may hit him who a sermon flies!" retorted Ronald, laughingly.
"And a man is easy to hit who sits down with folded hands, like him of
whom my rhythmic shaft has just made a target. But, to speak seriously,
do you wonder that true thoughts, beautiful thoughts, which have been
thrown into the music of verse, keep their haunting echoes in some
stronghold of memory, and surge up to the lips when a stirring incident
causes the gates of the mind to vibrate? Why, the very proof of the
poet's genuine inspiration, his chiefest triumph lies in this, that he
speaks a familiar truth, a common word of hope, a little word of
comfort, a simple word of warning, with such potency that it strikes
deeper into the soul than any other adjuration can reach; it defies us
to forget; it takes the sound of a prophecy, and thrills our hearts and
governs our actions in spite of ourselves. So much in defence of my
poetic memories. Now be generous enough to admit that poetry is usually
mingled with a large proportion of prosaic common sense which resolves
itself into action. My scoffed-at poetry interprets itself into this
matter-of-fact prose: unless you have the courage, the energy to ask
your father's consent to your accompanying me to America, you will not
get it; and if you ask you _may_ get it; and if you accompany me it may
profit you. Come,--what say you? I shall be ready to start next week."

"So soon?" ejac