nce.

"It is a beautiful poem," he said at last, quite honestly; and, raising
his eyes, he looked straight in hers. There is hardly a limit to the
knowledge and sympathy a man may have in respect of the finest things,
and yet be a fool. Sympathy is not harmony. A man may be a poet even,
and speak with the tongue of an angel, and yet be a very bad fool.

"I am sure it must be a beautiful poem," said Letty; "but I have hardly
got a hold of it yet." And she stretched her hand a little farther, as
if to proceed with its appropriation.

But Tom was not yet prepared to part with the book. He proceeded
instead, in fluent speech and not inappropriate language, to set forth,
not the power of the poem--that he both took and left as a matter of
course--but the beauty of those phrases, and the turns of those
expressions, which particularly pleased him--nor failing to remark
that, according to the strict laws of English verse, there was in it
one bad rhyme.

That point Letty begged him to explain, thus leading Tom to an
exposition of the laws of rhyme, in which, as far as English was
concerned, he happened to be something of an expert, partly from an
early habit of scribbling in ladies' albums. About these surface
affairs, Godfrey, understanding them better and valuing them more than
Tom, had yet taught Letty nothing, judging it premature to teach
polishing before carving; and hence this little display of knowledge on
the part of Tom impressed Letty more than was adequate--so much,
indeed, that she began to regard him as a sage, and a compeer of her
cousin Godfrey. Question followed question, and answer followed answer,
Letty feeling all the time she _must_ go, yet standing and standing,
like one in a dream, who thinks he can not, and certainly does not
break its spell--for in the act only is the ability and the deed born.
Besides, was she to go away and leave her beautiful book in his hand?
What would Godfrey think if she did? Again and again she stretched out
her own to take it, but, although he saw the motion, he held on to the
book as to his best anchor, hurriedly turned its leaves by fits and
searching for something more to his mind than anything of Milton's.
Suddenly his face brightened.

"Ah!" he said--and remained a moment silent, reading. "I don't wonder,"
he resumed, "at your admiration of Milton. He's very grand, of course,
and very musical, too; but one can't be listening to an organ always.
Not that I prefer merry