portions of his son's nature
which enabled him to bear the loss with fortitude. And he did bear it
bravely. But now, Mr. Haughton, if you have the rest of the day free,
I am about to make you an unceremonious proposition for its disposal. A
lady who knew Mr. Darrell when she was very young has--a strong desire
to form your acquaintance. She resides on the banks of the Thames, a
little above Twickenham. I have promised to call on her this evening.
Shall we dine together at Richmond? and afterwards we can take a boat to
her villa."

Lionel at once accepted, thinking so little of the lady that he did not
even ask her name. He was pleased to have a companion with whom he could
talk of Darrell. He asked but delay to write a few lines of affectionate
inquiry to his kinsman at Fawley, and, while he wrote, George took out
Arthur Branthwaite's poems, and resumed their perusal. Lionel having
sealed his letter, George extended the book to him. "Here are some
remarkable poems by a brother-in-law of that remarkable artist, Frank
Vance."

"Frank Vance! True, he had a brother-in-law a poet. I admire Frank so
much; and, though he professes to sneer at poetry, he is so associated
in my mind with poetical images that I am prepossessed beforehand in
favour of all that brings him, despite himself, in connection with
poetry."

"Tell me then," said George, pointing out a passage in the volume, "what
you think of these lines. My good uncle would call them gibberish. I am
not sure that I can construe them; but when I was your age, I think I
could--what say you?"

Lionel glanced. "Exquisite indeed!--nothing can be clearer--they express
exactly a sentiment in myself that I could never explain."

"Just so," said George, laughing. "Youth has a sentiment that it cannot
explain, and the sentiment is expressed in a form of poetry that middle
age cannot construe. It is true that poetry of the grand order interests
equally all ages; but the world ever throws out a poetry not of the
grandest; not meant to be durable--not meant to be universal, but
following the shifts and changes of human sentiment, and just like those
pretty sundials formed by flowers, which bloom to tell the hour, open
their buds to tell it, and, telling it, fade themselves from time."

Not listening to the critic, Lionel continued to read the poems,
exclaiming, "How exquisite!--how true!"

CHAPTER XXI.

IN LIFE, AS IN ART, THE BEAUTIFUL MOVES IN CURVES.

They ha