g at her. "I didn't know but you were going to send me to take up
my abode at Mrs. Seacomb's!"

"Startling, Mr. Linden!" said Faith opening her eyes at him. "I said it
because I thought it was right. I didn't think it was pleasant."

"Well," said he, "we were agreed upon that point. Now Miss Faith, as my
time is precious, and I cannot well give any of it to people who have
enough of their own--would it disturb you if I were to read aloud a
little here for my own amusement?"

She changed her place to come nearer, without saying anything, but with
a face of quiet delight only half revealed.

"What do you think of the relative and respective charms of Mirth and
Melancholy, Miss Faith?--I mean their charms to inward perception, not
outward sight."

"The pleasure of them?" said Faith.

"Yes--pleasure and satisfaction."

"I never thought there was any pleasure in Melancholy," said Faith
smiling at the idea, but smiling inquiringly too.

In answer, Mr. Linden opened his book and gave her the Allegro and
Penseroso,--gave them with not only a full appreciation, but with a
delicate change and suiting of voice and manner--and look, even--that
made them witching.

And if ever a hearer was bewitched, that was Faith. She lent her ear to
the music, her eye to the eye, her thought to the thought, in utter
forgetfulness of all else. At first she listened quietly, sitting where
she was, looking sometimes at the fire, sometimes at the reader; but
then she abandoned herself to full enjoyment, left her chair for a low
seat near Mr. Linden, almost at his feet; and with upraised face and
intent eye and varying play of lip, devoured it all. Sometimes the
poetry certainly got beyond the bounds of her stock of knowledge; but
that mattered not; for whenever the reading failed, the reader filled
up all the gap and Faith listened to _him_. Precisely what it was to
have just such a hearer, was best known to the reader himself; but he
closed the book silently. Faith's comment was peculiar.

It wasn't made at first. Her look had come round slowly to the fire and
slowly subsided. After sitting a minute so, she made her remark.

"But Mr. Linden, none of that seemed much like Melancholy to me?"

"That may be called the ideal of Melancholy," he said smiling.

"What is an 'ideal'? But oh," said Faith starting up, "it is time to
have tea!--What is an 'ideal,' Mr. Linden?"

It was impossible not to laugh a little--but equally impossible to ta