y to win their regard than
pride. If you were proud and cold to me and Hortense, should we love
you? When you are cold to me, as you _are_ sometimes, can I venture to
be affectionate in return?"

"Now, Lina, I've had my lesson both in languages and ethics, with a
touch on politics; it is your turn. Hortense tells me you were much
taken by a little piece of poetry you learned the other day, a piece by
poor Andre Chenier--'La Jeune Captive.' Do you remember it still?"

"I think so."

"Repeat it, then. Take your time and mind your accent; especially let us
have no English _u_'s."

Caroline, beginning in a low, rather tremulous voice, but gaining
courage as she proceeded, repeated the sweet verses of Chenier. The last
three stanzas she rehearsed well.

"Mon beau voyage encore est si loin de sa fin!
Je pars, et des ormeaux qui bordent le chemin
J'ai passe le premiers a peine.
Au banquet de la vie a peine commence,
Un instant seulement mes levres ont presse
La coupe en mes mains encore pleine.

"Je ne suis qu'au printemps--je veux voir la moisson;
Et comme le soleil, de saison en saison,
Je veux achever mon annee,
Brillante sur ma tige, et l'honneur du jardin
Je n'ai vu luire encore que les feux du matin,
Je veux achever ma journee!"

Moore listened at first with his eyes cast down, but soon he furtively
raised them. Leaning back in his chair he could watch Caroline without
her perceiving where his gaze was fixed. Her cheek had a colour, her
eyes a light, her countenance an expression this evening which would
have made even plain features striking; but there was not the grievous
defect of plainness to pardon in her case. The sunshine was not shed on
rough barrenness; it fell on soft bloom. Each lineament was turned with
grace; the whole aspect was pleasing. At the present moment--animated,
interested, touched--she might be called beautiful. Such a face was
calculated to awaken not only the calm sentiment of esteem, the distant
one of admiration, but some feeling more tender, genial,
intimate--friendship, perhaps, affection, interest. When she had
finished, she turned to Moore, and met his eye.

"Is that pretty well repeated?" she inquired, smiling like any happy,
docile child.

"I really don't know."

"Why don't you know? Have you not listened?"

"Yes--and looked. You are fond of poetry, Lina?"

"When I meet with _real_ poetry, I cannot rest