'It depends upon the kind of book,' said Molly. 'I'm afraid I don't
like "steady reading," as papa calls it.'

'But you like poetry!' said Mrs. Hamley, almost interrupting Molly. 'I
was sure you did, from your face. Have you read this last poem of Mrs.
Hemans? Shall I read it aloud to you?'

So she began. Molly was not so much absorbed in listening but that she
could glance round the room. The character of the furniture was much
the same as in her own. Old-fashioned, of handsome material, and
faultlessly clean; the age and the foreign appearance of it gave an
aspect of comfort and picturesqueness to the whole apartment. On the
walls there hung some crayon sketches--portraits. She thought she could
make out that one of them was a likeness of Mrs. Hamley, in her
beautiful youth. And then she became interested in the poem, and
dropped her work, and listened in a manner that was after Mrs Hamley's
own heart. When the reading of the poem was ended, Mrs Hamley replied
to some of Molly's words of admiration, by saying,--

'Ah! I think I must read you some of Osborne's poetry some day; under
seal of secrecy, remember; but I really fancy they are almost as good
as Mrs. Hemans'.'

To be 'nearly as good as Mrs. Hemans' was saying as much to the young
ladies of that day, as saying that poetry is nearly as good as
Tennyson's would be in this. Molly looked up with eager interest.

'Mr. Osborne Hamley? Does your son write poetry?'