it should be. Michael came. He was more bashful than he had been the night
before, and he stammered an apology for his father's absence without
venturing to look towards the individual he addressed. He drew two chairs
to the table--one for Margaret, another for himself. He placed them at a
distance from each other, and, taking some papers from his pocket with a
nervous hand, he sat down without a minute's loss of time to look over and
arrange them. Margaret was pleased with his behaviour; she took her seat
composedly, and waited for his statement. There were a few select and
favourite volumes on the table, and one of these the lady involuntarily
took up and ran through, whilst Michael still continued busy with his
documents, and apparently perplexed by them. Nothing can be more ill
advised than to disturb a man immersed in business with literary or any
other observations foreign to his subject.

"You were speaking of Wordsworth yesterday evening, Mr Allcraft," said
Margaret suddenly--Allcraft pushed every paper from him in a paroxysm of
delight, and looked up--"and I think we were agreed in our opinion of that
great poet. What a sweet thing is this! Did you ever read it? It is the
sonnet on the Sonnet."

"A gem, madam. None but he could have written it. The finest writer of
sonnets in the world has spoken the poem's praise with a tenderness and
pathos that are inimitable. There is the true philosophy of the heart in
all he says--a reconciliation of suffering humanity to its hard but
necessary lot. How exquisite and full of meaning are those lines--

'Bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest peak of Furness fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells;'